ϟ 【sαπgυιπαrψ δεvιl】

     “This … this is the key to freedom, to the outside. I’ve been hoping and dreaming for this to happen. Just follow me, Mister. I’ll show you.” What better way could there be than showing him what she’s trying to explain so eagerly? Tightening her grip and holding it close to her heart, Elizabeth turned still holding the key, making her way towards the mechanical door at the end of the hallway that sidled through the library.She was so careless and happy right now, she couldn’t even focus onto the main deal, why this man was here and what his name was. Too many things were happening right now – too much good stuff. It’s like watching the tide turning its usual direction, leading her into another realm; Reality.

       ❝ A key to freedom, huh? Wouldn’t bet on it if I were you. ❞

Words were merely a whisper when they rippled from the cold dead steel of his jaw, not meant to be heard but forced to break free from the prison that appeared to be his crammed skull, unable to process all informations, words and thoughts in one, single breath. He’d felt that this mission wouldn’t be a cakewalk, as ever so often, but seeing things how they were now, he secretly wished he’d never agreed to do it in the first place. Though, what’s worse? Breaking the shackles that fed from brittle bones only to help bailing out a girl, whom he didn’t know shit of, from her domestic cage [ why’d someone keep her locked up in a freaky, angel-shaped tower anyway? ]  and ultimately deliver her to New York like some dangerous cargo? Or the shame of declining the last wish of a dying man? His mind went blank. A silent, desperate sigh drifting through his dark waters like thick vapor.

‘ Either seems pretty messed up to me right now. Ugh. When will I ever learn to say NO. ’

There’s a cadence of soft [ clinks ] as h a r d steel strided its way over black-white linoleum covered flooring, eyes fixated atop the ‘gate’ they headed for as if to inspect it for a lock or something of the kind. And while he did think about the right solution, he mentally and temporarily reprimanding the lurking d a r k n e s s that spoke to him in fleeting fat and bloody caps, trying to confuse him as it usally did, whispering lies that’d make him question all of the current, including himself. It’s not the time to lose it, to allow his inner demons to bent and bruise him like a weathered, twisted tree. This girl’s dependent on his help, his s a n i t y, more or less, so being the hopeless wreck he felt to be for the most part would certainly not be the aid she’d presumably seeked for a long time. He just had to keep it together, s o m e h o w.

       ❝ You’re sure this is the way to ‘freedom’? This thing could be here for a reason, right? To keep you and everybody else away from s o m e t h i n g? Opening it now could mean . . . trouble. ❞

She’s giving him yet another, painfully long stare, as if by mere glimpses she’d spin him inside her web of lies and corruption, to keep him pinned where he belonged, inside her control only to suck his wishes, hopes and dreams out of him afterwards. And when he’s trying to move, to struggle free and unwind from her lethal grip, the stickiness of her threads would make sure he’d remain in his little prison, forced to surrender and to stare the grim reaper in his ugly grimace. All metaphorical thinking — but the mere thought made her leathery muscles twitch in delight and her eyes beam in some glamorous virilism. Such a tease he’d been in the past. And still was. She could enjoy the company, this special brand of his, way more often in the future. It’d definitely be a shame to kill him all too soon.

“Say, Jack, have you ever heard about the 'Fest Biou' before? Answer honestly.” She highly doubted he had, however. It’s France history, only a few Americans, and especially Liberians, knew of. She’d exceptionally, explain it to him if he should confess his lack of knowledge.

Not that he really had the time to ponder these things when she's still around, armed and as deadly as a desert cat's claws. His intense train of thoughts was disrupted by the chime of her voice, the dying click of her constant steps and the lingering scent of french flowers and chemicals dripping from her mouth like poison, snapping his senses out of that trance-like state. Of cold metal and dead flesh no ordinary eye would anticipate as such. A walking piece of [ pestilence ].

       ❝ Wrong. We may share the same past . . . but having a few, ridiculous commonalities alone won't prove any equality, Mistral. I admit, I haven't always been in the rightest state of mind, done some unpleasant things I'd rather love to erase from my memories. But, and despite all the blood that's sticking to my fingers, I'm still a long way off from being like y o u. ❞

Manic and pestilent -- both mental states with which Raiden could only empathize. He'd felt and done the same thing, with pleasure and [ regret ]. Maybe, she wasn't so wrong after all. They a r e one and the same in many ways. But he absolutely refused to see it that way. Sharing a few certain similitudes didn't make him the same,  obnoxious being she represented. She could try to convince him of the contrary all she wanted -- he couldn't care less about her point of view. Or at least, that's what he's tyring to show from the outside. Perhaps it's just a charade. But it's keeping his corrupted mind in check and his fiery sentinents cool. 

In the midst of all those painstakingly full-scale gazes she flings at him, he can, quite to his astonishment, discern something else despite the usual malice and slyness she usually radiated. It's a silent, very vague perception -- an assumption regarding her [ humanity ] and how much of it was still left inside of those plastic fabricated veins and pottery skeleton cores? It's the first time he's facing her with an indifferent kind of view, where words are falling in a peaceful and pure flow without any ulterior motives to anything. They're just having a talk and she's asking him a simple question. The kind of circumstance that promptly made him question reality, her presence . . . and his current state of mind. Maybe he's only imagening things.

Head fell into a slight tilt and alabaster brows furrowed in a way that showed both confusion and tenseness, tongue snapping inside the back of his mouth, hissing like a coiling serpent around every word that slithers free.

       ❝ No idea what that is. Care to explain? ❞

         She lead the way with keen, calculated steps, tamed the wild hare and set it running straight to the finishing line. And he responded to her wayward signals, pursued her subliminal lead like a good-tempered, obedient dog.

          ( G O O D  B O Y. )

       But – no. He didn’t seem loyal enough. Not just y e t. And she’d hate to lose the grip around the leash she’d carefully summoned upon the man’s neck via first rough glimpses, blurred thoughts and velvety, deceptive words to lull him in like a little lost child in a big, dark wood. She perhaps would have to make it worth his while, earn his trust despite not needing to, throw him a few more bones until the moment’s right. There was potential in his eyes, the kind of strength, mixed with that slight ounce of mystery, she hadn’t seen in the way of a man for a longer time. She could be wrong, of course, misled by false innuendos. It’s still worth a try. She’s got a little more time to spare, a little more whip of spidery delusional lashes and flattering words to share. The night was long. Minutes burning ‘til seconds p o p.

             ❝A name? … A name doesn’t matter anymore nowadays. But, if it helps you sleep at night, I’ll introduce myself first : You can call me Ada. Ada Wong. And I might have something that would … catch your interest.❞

       She spoke careful and wise, choosing her words with utmost, surgical precision to ensure the fun and mystery this conversation held, the syllables of her name dripping from her lips like sweet, sweet honey. It’d lure his attention, set his curiosity on fire until he couldn’t stand the progressively thirsting heat any further, seeking the aid of the cool. Or in her way; Answers. They were in fact right here, sitting at his elbow, a vixen clad in velvet silk and claret shades, holding truth in her fangs. He surely wouldn’t leave without a good fill on informations. He’d be the first. The one between hundreds. Popped her fuchsia lips and bestowed him a collected stare, legs crossing and uncrossing again – a cadence in which her polished red lacquer shoes clicked against smoky ligneous flooring. The game had started. Voice whipping the silence like a lash.

             ❝So, are you?❞

-- No, stop. 

This certainly wasn't the right time, nor the right place to ponder such things. Upon his own realization of how far he'd once again drifted away and into the puddles of his own dark and far afield spheres, Raiden forcefully snapped out of it, his poor and oh so tormented mind back to the present, a second of shock embracing his gerrymandered physiognomy before smoothing back to the prosaic, mildly agnostic emission he'd carried ever since their join up back in the alleys. And it didn't take long for him to intuitively feel out that she's playing a game of decoy and capture, illusion and dream. Something he couldn't yet lay a precise finger on. Though, what's the gain? For him -- both of them. She obviously knew that he's a man to hire for a myriad of specific matters and concerns and, of course, the right price. Still, what for? What's the big clue she's so eagerly carrying as a secret? Curiosity burned inside of his fibres, ready to burn him out from under if it wouldn't be released to roam free imminent, potash blues flickering like LED lights as if his body had just switched back to life. Things suddenly seemed to get interesting and worth his while. Finally. Yet depsite all the interest he harbored, he'd refrain from letting his guard down for just a second. She's ambiguous as the night and he'd be a fool to fall for her tricks right at the start.

      ❝ Ada Wong? ❞

He repeated her name as if to get a feel for it first, her honeycombed voice recoiling from the narrow wooden walls straight back to his internal senses where his nanomachines and sensors clicked into procession to find a name and face relative to aforementioned identity. Much to his surprise, none could be found, however. Nothing but a blank, conceptual page. She remained the silent mystery she'd been since the very first uttered syllable, the hymn to the red october, only with a name this time. If her words could truly be believed. 

      ❝ --Hn, what do you think, Ada? I wouldn't have come all this way just for the daily exchange of pleasantries, nor to drown myself senselessly in numerous kinds of liquor. You're not blind and I'm not stupid -- we both k n o w I don't look like the typical patron to spasmodic visit a bar. ❞

The sarcasm was so t h i c k in his tone that it could be easily sliced with a knife. Making a willing decision to change yourself into a monster, to become a tool of a higher being and learn to love it was more pitiful and disturbing than the idea of actually being controlled. He liked to believe he'd most widely passed this state of desperation and bated self-control but . . . a deeply rooted past will always find a way to catch up with you. Always reminding you of who you truly are.

      ❝ Alright, shoot. What's the objective? I'm all ears. ❞

The queen of destruction and punished souls rested upon her throne, her precious Dawrf Gekkos upholding her inferior and obediently like they’d fear to be sliced and diced if they should make even the slightest tang of disobedience — and she certainly would do something similar to that. If not far more ferocious than imagined. She bathed in the Liberian’s sorrow, soaked his painful panting in like the gust of a bittersweet drug, affecting her bloodstained heart with pleasure.

Oh how she enjoyed it — though, what’s far more enjoyable was the fact that Mistral finally got him angry, literraly enraged. He leaped towards her, his movements filled with so much hatred and wrath. That’s exactly what she wanted. No, she wanted more than that; She craved for ‘Jack the Ripper’ to come and prong her, twist his frequencied blade through her petite flesh, make her squinch and cry with passion while the blood stains all of his actions. She could feel the soft weight beneath her disappearing when he slashed those Gekkos off with a single strike. And even though he certainly didn’t make sure to not hit her, she escaped just in time, spinning to the side gracefully, like an equilibrist escaping a lion’s deadly paw. Finally, her long awaited dance would finally start here and now.

"Oh, did I make you angry, Jack? My apologies. Maybe it’s time for you to fight like a real man and let me feel your rage." Dwarf Gekkos were gathering around her, her deadly heels snapping one of them in two once it got closer to her position, sparks illuminatiing around her chiselled frame. Without the faintest bit of remorse, she tore two arms off, patching them as if they were made from one piece and for this purpose solely. L’Étranger was formed and she was ready to fight, pouring salt into his wounds as long as he’d still be able to disobey her orders and possess a free will.

"Then come on boy and show me how to dance~"

With great pace and agility, Raiden approached her position, handle of his sword tightly clutched, resting within his lethal grasp like a justice heralding scepter. The blood thirsting blade was striving for her Gekkos, its sparkling and sharp edge cutting through their sturdy, metallic plating like it was nothing, dissecting them to bits and shreds within mere seconds. Mistral, however, got away -- which wasn't much of a let-down, though. He'd get her sooner or later and if he does, she'd better pray it's gonna be quick. But by no means [ painless ]. Raiden would make her suffer, seperating the skin from bones without leaving any pieces of this disgraceful deed. He'd live up to his reputation, being the cold blooded killer everyone knew and feared -- Jack, the Ripper. 

       ❝ You'll regret riling me up this way, Mistral. Especially at the latest, when y o u a r e the one crawling upon your weakened knees, savoring a few last breaths before I'll wipe your miserable existence from this planet. ❞  

A low growl ensued on the Cyborg’s behave, sinister in tone; words dripping off his tongue like a murderously bitter vengeance call. They were difinite. His determination set. He needed to stop her -- before that [ thing ] she endowed him with would start to function. And therefore put the final nail in the coffin. Landing on his pawish feet, Raiden immediately uprised again, sword arched above his pate. Sparks were hissing and flickering around him, an evoked pageant of thundering madness. 

       ❝ It'll be the last dance I spare to offer you. ❞

His visor glided shut, red trails of light illuminating this dark plant just long enough to give it a perilous veneer. She had bidden the devil for a last danse macabre -- and that's exactly what she'd get. Speeding up straight towards her, he clutched his high-frequency blade anew, ready to whip for her frame and manufacture her into mincemeat. Once and for all.

He’s right. She maybe had overdone things a little. Like always. Though, knowing him and his spontaneous depressions every once in a while, it’d be nothing new if he’d sink into another deep puddle of hatred and dislike against anybody he’d face. Raiden always had a really complex character, so hard to read, so hard to understand. That goes for most of the people — but not for her. She knew him better than anyone else because, after all, she’s still his doctor and he’s her patient. They may weren’t at Area 51 any longer but she’d still be there to help him out whenever she could. Smiling, she scrutinized his armor, the newest model he’d gained from Wilhelm Voigt. Maybe a little baulky but, all in all, it suited him.

❝You’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve known that you’re able to handle such things just finely on your own. It wasn’t the best start for a first conversation after years, hm?❞

Concerning the topic ‘love’, however, she remained quiet for a while, contemplating what she’s gonna say next. Well, he’s sort of right. She did trust in such feelings and, of course, in love as well. Though, if it’s the strongest of feelings? How could she tell for sure when she’s never been truly in love herself? Or maybe she was… hadn’t accepted it yet, however.

❝ I sort of… do believe in the power of love, yes. I know it’s terribly cliché but what can I do? Which feeling… are you talking about exactly, however?❞

There’s but a moment where the cyborg found words fall silent on his tongue, expression showing next to no emotion as she spoke. Only a trace of spite crossed his prosthetic features— eye zeroed in on the woman’s petite frame. She indeed worried too much and maybe that’s exactly what agitated him ever so often. Made him [ angry ]. His life was no longer hers to be concerned of. Neither his problems, nor his mental and physical state. They’d been in one of the same fetid pit once, that hidden shithole of an ulterior laboratory serving as a cage, and he still thanked fate and her presence as well that they’d made it out of there alive somehow. But that was then, and this is now. She’d go on with her plans while he’d follow his own trail of goals and leads until whatever he searched for so eagerly … could finally be found. Felicia’s of good and kind-hearted nature, no doubt, and he also knew that she only meant well for him and his further progress — but seeing as it is, she made it all the more complex. For both him and herself as well. He even absently considered that maybe she did more damage than she actually helpd —— but dismissed the thought immediately in the aftermath.

No. She’d done well, successfully had gained her fair share of trust and reciprocations in turn for being an indispensable help. And friend.

       ❝ It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just … leave it at that. Once and for all. You sure have plenty of other topics at hand to talk about with me, haven’t ya. ❞

It’s not bleeding out that kills you — but the shattered heart. Yeah. After having his first-hand experiences concerning that matter, he indeed could tell a thing or two about it. Love’s one of the strongest of feelings a human being could possibly harbor, it heals and mends a fractured heart regardless of how deep the tendrils of pain had wreaked their way through sentinent flesh, made once murky things shine in a colorful bright and glorious light and the bearer happier than ever. Though, like everything in life, love also had had its ups and downs, a way darker taste and aspect to its known grandeur than firstly expected. Like a coin with two different sides. You flip it … and it’s either winning or losing it [ all ] at one strike. Put your trust, heart and life into the falsest and most mendacious hands and you’ll regret it your entire life. Stigmatized to always remember the wrong you’ve done, the idiotic and naively blind foolishness to believe in something that’s stronger than the cutting ache solitude brings along. In the end, however, everything’s going f a r worse, to [ shit ]. He’d loved, believed and dared to place his trust into fragile hands — but instead of keeping all of that safe, cozy and sound, they’d crushed, torn and cut everything up to size and fragments. Too small to be picked up, too brittle to be plugged together again. It deeply pained Raiden to ponder it over and over again, that moment when a purportedly strong love turned out to be nothing but blown dust and faslified promises. But they were still inside his heart, trapped and nailed into those tired strings like a warning sign just so he’d always remember the psychic turmoil he went through.

A cluster of mindfucking problems and evoking darkness; m a d n e s s. And he could feel it growing stronger inside of him with each passing day, each thought he spared because it was the fuel to his demons to aflame in bright flagrancy. And he could hear the darkness, that foul piece of a demon that’s caged inside his heart, speaking up to him louder than ever, infusing him with lies and whispers of ghastly nature. If she’d know about his thoughts, his darkest parts he so frantically tried to keep hidden beneath artificial hard coils, … would she still be here, talking to him like everything’s actually fine and alright? He wondered. Jibbed at the very thought to find out, however.

Feeling his voice slipping into a dark painted grasp of pitches, his tongue flicked sharply behind the chrome that’s covering his jaw, dancing along with every word he uttered almost profoundly convinced. Guided by some petrifying, superior force.

She walked alongside the man, silently, but entirely thoughtless. There was absolutely nothing on her mind but an endless seeming void, a hole that’d normally frantically search for answers, just /anything/ that could rudimentarily explain what has happened to her before she got here and fill in the blanks. But she couldn’t, her senses were dead, not even the cold seemed to bother her any longer. Maybe she’d grown too tired to feel or think anything right now. All she wanted was to go somewhere safe and rest rightfully, even if it’s just for a few hours. Her body urgently needed it. And thankfully, this man had changed his mind about leading her to one of the closest police stations he could possibly find and now intended to bring her to his own home. Well, actually, it was rather her convincing him to do it than him proposing the idea but did that really matter? To her, it didn’t. And it seemed like she displayed this non-caring attitude quite well right now. She didn’t even feel like answering his question, struggled against her drowsiness, however, and formed something that’s close to a decent sentence — eyes falling shut briefly.

"I don’t know. We’ll see, maybe. Just… take me there, okay? I need some rest…"

They began to sift through the city like leafs, carried by the mild touch of wind aimlessly. And with that guiding, shallow whisper nipping at his pinna and hair-ends, he could almost effortlessly tell which junctions and streets they had to cross to get to his hideout even though his eyes remained behind closed lids. There was no need to rely on any sensors or other, updated hologram maps that were uploaded into his HUD this time -- technology may came in handy, especially when you're bound to fight other augmented mercenaries or PMC's because anything else would most certainly make this whole thing look like a pathetic David versus Goliath sort of recurrence. But Raiden still liked to recall the fact that he was, if not physically, still a human being with senses and skills that weren't perfected on comparable basis to his mechanical optimizations, yet reliable and well-trained enough to get things done solely on natural states. Where'd he and all the others be now if they'd put all their trust and expectations into blank science and studies blindly? There's no avoiding the fact that some were stupid enough to value technology and nothing but -- he however, despite being synthesized for more than eighty percent, did not. He'd rather trust his instincts and true feelings than confiding into something that has been flawed with lacks and failures ever since the days of early developments. Nothing in this world would ever acquire the status of perfection. Not science, not medicines and especially not policy.

The further they marched, the darker and colder did everything seem, alleys honeycombed with cobbled granite houses with roofs that sat tightly next to the other roof to the point it looked as if they joined a fray for dominance. Or maybe just to shield themselves, their stony brittle facades, from the deadly chilling stare of the cold. The stillest battle of the ages. Poor and cheaply build shanties afrronting the all-defending, dearly invested sturdy walls that, in actuality, hadn't even sustained half as many winters with all their pride. What's the saying again? Old sometimes is better than new? He'd really hope that for the people living there, forced to manage the hardships of life with little to no money. He knew those circumstances all too well, the frustration and [ hopelessness ] coming along with being homeless ; You're fighting to be stong on the outside, but on the inside you feel so f o r l o r n. Throwing a few odd side-glances towards the female beside him, he wondered if she could've been the same, experiencing the life on a crossroad far, far apart from prosperity and felicity with just the simplest of things at hand to survive. Judging by her spicy trim appearance, however, he highly doubted his own theory. Or maybe it's just [ part ] of her business to earn something for a living. He didn't know, he didn't care.

The cyborgs' crystalline eyes wandered everywhere, pupils dialiting to permeate the night—from the neon illuminated night clubs a few ways off to the architecture of towering skyscrapers farther ahead. They were both quietened to the silence of a knife's edge, perhaps swelling with old haunts— and although even with most of her clothes “gone” and a mere, sweetly shaped undergarment studded with lace, she was still calm and terribly sorted, with invisible and unbendable, unshakeable monolithic steel walls holding her infirm insides together. Blondie was a walking piece of mystery, all packed up and riddled with cloudy hints and delicate secrets that literally drew a sea of questions out of the deepest waters his mind silently pooled. Like observing an unmarked map, he didn't know where to start, nor where to head to. It's a blind fumble in the dark this time -- not any less luring, however. And despite his great indifference, he felt somewhat entangled by her ways, unbale to wrest himself free just [ yet ].

The heels of his business shoes clicked across the concrete roads until they abruptly stopped and called a very familiar silence upon cold, thin air. Her words had prompted him to pull the brake and so his piercing stare swayed sidewards, locking onto her contours like a tight, judgmental clasp. Not that he feared her in petto intentions, if she held any that is, but it's better to be safe than sorry. He'd once allowed a woman to shatter his mind and heart into thousands of pieces -- he'd surely not do the same mistake twice. It's not about love like it used to be with [ her ], yet was it an act of charity and bonhomie. Two things that can easily be slated, devalued. He'd have to keep a solid distance, no matter how pitiful the odds may be. A shallow breath slithered from his tongue and gloved fingers dive into a set of smoking trouser pockets, seeking comfort and safety, eyes refusing to mirror what's keeping him busy and d i s t r a u g h t from within. She really did seem tired so he could certainly buy that argument.

       ❝ Not the kind of answer I wanted to hear but I guess this will have to do until things are a little less frenzied.

It was predictable he wouldn’t calmly move away, at his place she wouldn’t have either. She tried at least. 

Cyb-kill studied him again, pondering if she should reply or keep the silent treatment as always. It would be for the best, why treating him differently ? Orders were clear, never tell about SSP or her true identity. Speaking as less as possible, appearing non-existent, like a ghost. People called her Cyborg-killer, despite those weren’t her only targets, but nowadays social media enjoyed to spread any information which seemed sensational enough. 

Cyborg-killer, Cyb-kill even CK. Eveyrone had its favorite one.

Whatever, people could talk. Priorities first, missions first.

If he wouldn’t move from her path, she would simply pass by him. The blade she was threatening him with, was back in its metallic sheath in fast smooth move. However before she could make a first step, her transformed/robotic voice came out from the helmet:

“You don’t know.”

Once this sentence over, she passed by him then headed to the next area. Obviously electronically locked, however it wouldn’t be an issue. Easily cracking the code so the doors opened by themselves. 

Passing through the newly-open path, she was on her guards in case of any new foes coming from nowhere. But also because of the cyborg she left behind her that certainly won’t leave her alone because of his own mission.

What she just hoped, was they wouldn’t have to fight for this.

He’d frantically try and refuse any admittance to the inklings of worry that danced in the pit of his abdomen when his counterpart didn’t come out with the expected answers as quickly as the silverette might’ve hoped— fingers capped with claws like razors curling into padded palms as his single eye tried to peer through the non-transparent helmet's material. Data whirred to life in his unfettered iris, feeling out the figure before him and the shadiness they radiated like thick electric smog, ready to bolt out from behind the calm and collected posture to strike the first match. It was enough for artificial muscles going taut with the wisps that could promise another fight, another needless p r o c r a s t i n a t i o n, although he certainly had no time to play with the small fishes. Metal grinded against synthetic enamel, pale brows were drawn and pupil retracted as it bathed itself in the light consuming the interior of the entrance hallway. Raiden didn't seek to fight the other -- but knowing his luck, it'd either way come down to this at the end of the day. That's how it [ usually ] ended, just what he's used to.

There’s the urge to snap back at their words— ❝ No shit, really. If I'd know, I wouldn't have asked ❞— but he’s biting it down, vouching to let a lip that's free from metal and synthetics curl into something of a snide grin. It’s hardly there, a ghost of a shadow that washed over him with a pass over his mouth, clawed hand wiping it away before his possible opponent in front of him can see it. A mere shrug's delivered and he watched them making their way past his towering, firm frame and towards the security lock on the other side of the hallway, entering a passcode or something to allow themselves entrance. 'Beep, beep' did it chime before the heavy doors wings parted with hissing, slow motions, unfolding to each side. How convenient because all he needed to do now was catching up and falling into step with the stranger to impede them anew. No code gathering, no hacking. Just the way he liked his missions. Smooth and easy. Now there's only one thing that still bothered him; the other's presence.

He caught up quickly, electricity sparkling and crackling in the wake of his brisk steps until he slid to an abrupt halt, only a few mere feet parting their breaths now. One, deadly taloned hand lifted, settling briskly onto the stringed side of his plated hip while his drawn blade remained tightly within the other, stirring prominent, as if performing a silent beg to be called into action and coated in the stain of the others coppery essence of life after the first, well-aimed strike. Though, he wondered if it'd be that easy. The armor seemed pretty tough and thick, covering most of all the sensitive spots a human body offered. It sure ain't a problem for his highly charged blade to melt these layers down to liquid lead and protrude to the very core -- but he probably shouldn't run the risk and underestimate his opponent. They could be anything, really. A Cyborg, or perhaps a pure walking piece of machinery, bestowed with the finest knick-knacks and artificial intelligence . . . or simply a human made of real skin, flesh and bones, hiding beneath safe covers, the patronage of science and trickery. He'd run another scan over the other, trying to unveil the truth they so proudly hid before untaught eyes -- it'd be a pratfall, just like last time. And the times before. Their informations were either precisely secured from other intruders to peek in or they used a special veil of chaff around themselves for electronic countermeasure, forbidding his internal radars to analyze what lied beneath the ominous shell. But that didn't really matter now. It'd sure easify a few things for him but it'd not safe him this dispute. With a smoth steadiness, the liberian seized the handle of his hf-blade and pointed its tip towards the others back, refusing to let them head their way without giving him the appropriate fill-in.

       ❝ Hey, stop ! I don't believe we're done talking just yet. And I suggest you better listen carefully now because I won't repeat myself a second time. ❞

Throaty, harsh spoken words cut through the silence like his blade skimming through steel and there's hardly any hints of compromise swinging in the wake of his mechanic, yet real sounding voice. He's through with the games the other seemed to love playing and would now put an end to the show.

       ❝ I'm here on official business and the things that need to be done and solved are u r g e n t, which means I can't afford any interruptions to happen. I don't know who you are or what you intend to find around here but if your presence should turn out to be a nuisance for me, I will do whatever it takes to wipe it out of the way to guarantee my profit -- and your loss. We can do this the easy . . . or the hard way. It's your call. ❞

     She hesitated a moment, trying to collect her wishy-washy thoughts and the things, that happened before ending up here. Since the days she had spent here felt like any other, she kind of lost her sense of time and therefore…couldn’t give him a straight answer. “I…don’t know. Maybe since a few days, or maybe for weeks. I kind of…lost the track.”, she explained, having an uncertain just as rattled kind of glance in her eyes, staring at the cup of hot chocolate. Yeah, Jodie somehow felt ashamed to talk about it with someone else. It was devastating to face the truth, the deep end she had reached in her life at such a young age.

     “Sounds like my whole life story thus far…” Her voice sounded teasing, mixed with a slight hint of bitter sarcasm — she didn’t mean no offense with that, though. “Say, why…do you help me? Why playing the good Samaritan? I mean, you could just walk away and ignore me, like everyone else.”

Leather hissed in an almost leery fashion when he uplifted his right arm, as if the material itself would treat his body with utmost suspicion, barbed chromatic digits fishing two 'til three cubes of sugar out of the small pot in front of him to let them drop into his cup with a 'blob' afterwards. Despite of being unable to taste absolute intensitiy along with ingested drinks or nutritions, he still liked his coffee sweet and milky. Must be one of those 'everlasting habits' he just couldn't get rid of, no matter the effort. Just a sweet, remaining remembrance from [ better ] days. Absent-mindedly did he watch the quads of sugar sink further into the liquidized core of pure and fresh caffeine. Devoured by the cups brownish content where they hopelessly drowned, fragmented and corroded until nothing but pieces and particles were left. It's probably overly dramatic, even for his standards, to compare this chemical mechanism with a present state, his [ own ] painful experiences but . . . nevertheless seemed accurate enough to allow him the schematization of a clear picture within the back of his mind. He could somehow recognize himself there, in a metaphorically spoken way, caught in a role he's never had the chance to willingly accept or simply decline because he's been forcefully shaped into what he was now by fate -- and frankly, he demonstrated a brilliant play so far. A lackluster private party with his inner demons and hidden skeletons, armed to the teeth with reaping-sharp utensils slowly taking aim at his sanity. The further they ventured, the more could he feel his subsistence slipping through the cracks of his once safe walls into nowhere -- too far to be found, too deep to be rescued.

With his cerulean oculi watching the silvery handle of a spoon drawing its probably tenth to twelth round to circle the cup, he kept stirring the coffee, didn't really seem to pay attention to her words, however. They washed over him without meaning, without reason. If he had to make a career out of calculated risks and heartless manoeuvres he could, but he’d rather leave it to somebody else. His manufactured, synthetic heart is set on experiences which are hard to grasp, lovely things, yet so f l e e t i n g l y. He dreamt of moving free, seperated from the shackles he'd been burdened with since his youth, exploring wide open spaces without fear, without the taste of blood on his lips and the smell of war in the air, far from stuffy rooms and clutches with archaic principles. He could apprehend, in a way, that she maybe had wished the same thing for a long time. Until life had made her question those beliefs, nipped them in the bud. Sympathy was hardly something Raiden consciously fished for, preferred to deny any attempts at comfort from others to instead try and deal with it all by himself. But maybe, if he'd risk to lay his card open for once, he could work something out. Not for his own sake -- but for hers. They say misery y e a r n s for company for a reason— will draw you to those that could possibly relate to your demons and give you the attention, the sympathy that your body [ needs ]. He could, in fact, clearly remember someone saying that to him [ Courtney ? Perhaps Rose— but it’s best to not think about her. Not n o w ], recall how he'd denied every word spoken out of the kind of bullheadedness that comes from youth. But now, now he’s not so sure. She could use that company, that knowing of not being alone. How to start, though? Should he at all?

Breaking himself loose from the grasp of looping throughts, his unbound gaze drifted from the still stirring hand up to the young one's face where he met hers in half-way, a cautious amusement tugging at he corners of a vibrant, upper lip. So agnostic and overwary -- he liked that. It'd save her a lot of trouble in the near future. And it's one thing less to worry about.

       ❝ Like I said before. I can somehow . . . relate. We may didn't experience the exact same thing but tragedies remain tragedies just the same. A feeling that links, whether you want it or not. ❞

es geht um die Wurst - the sausage is at stake - it’s now or never, it’s neck or nothing

die Wurstigkeit - sausage-y-ness - a noun that describes the feeling of not caring about something

< -- clipped -- >

“Kommen Sie… langsam. Ja, so ist’s gut”, sprach sie ihm mit sanfter, ruhiger Stimme zu in der Hoffnung, er würde schnell realisieren, dass sie ihm nichts böses wollen würde. Warum auch? Schließlich hatte man auch sie hier eingesperrt, gegen ihren Willen. Doch welche Möglichkeiten, mit Ausnahme von Gehorchen, hatte sie denn schon übrig und in der Hand? Richtig. Keine Einzige. Sie beobachtete ihn, so wie es eine Wissenschaftlerin nun einmal bei ihrem ‘Versuchsobjekt’ tat und kritzelte hier und da mal wieder ein paar kurze Notizen auf das Blatt am Klemmbrett,  legte das gute Ding dann aber wieder beiseite und konzentrierte sich auf das noch folgende. Er gab sich alle Mühe, machte auch recht schnell und ganz zu ihrer Überraschung, sogar verborgenen Begeisterung, Fortschritte, die so noch keiner erreicht hatte. Die Prothesen quietschten und fauchten zwar noch leise aber das könne man regeln. Ein paar Schrauben und Verbindungen saßen vermutlich zu fest. Kein großes Problem für die Techniker. Doch, als er dann abrupt vor ihr stehen blieb und sie mit diesen hasserfüllten, teilweise aber auch sehr leeren Augen anstarrte, wurde ihr kurz ganz anders zumute. Felicia bekam Bammel, wandte ihren Blick auf die cyber Hände des Mannes, die sich in Fäuste wandten und dann wieder hoch zu seinem Gesicht. Er würde sie nicht angreifen, oder doch? Er schien zumindest mit dem Gedanken zu spielen, irgendetwas zu zerschlagen. Solange es aber nicht ihr Gesicht wäre, wäre ihr alles so ziemlich egal. “D-das… scheint ja schon ganz gut geklappt zu haben”, stammelte sie dann, versuchte aber die Netiquette der unermüdlichen Wissenschaftlerin zu wahren, die nichts und niemand aus der Bahn werfen konnte und griff wieder nach dem Klemmbrett zu ihrer linken, ein paar Schritte seitwärts gehend. “Stehen können Sie ja immerhin schon einmal besser als zu Beginn. Das mit dem flüssigen Gehen bekommen wir auch noch in den Griff. Haben Sie… noch schmerzen? Bitte einmal nicken wenn ‘Ja’, und zweimal wenn ‘Nein.” Sie durfte nicht vergessen : Seine Sprachbox war noch immer deaktiviert. Auf ‘Mute’ sozusagen.

Der eisern schnürende Blick des Cyborgs ruhte nun mehr oder minder ruhig auf seiner Gegenüber, welche sich noch immer mit dem Rücken gegen die verspiegelte Scheibe presste und fast so wirkte, als hätte sie einen Geist gesehen. Ob dies nun an den plötzlichen Fortschritten lag, die Raiden innerhalb weniger Minuten vollbracht hatte, oder vielmehr dem Zorn, den seine eisblauen Augen vermochten wiederzuspiegeln, lag im Ungewissen. Aber das tat ohnehin nichts zur Sache. Fürchtete sie ihn, war das gut, denn so würde sie den Respekt wahren und nicht auf irgendwelch absonderlich dummen Gedanken kommen, die ihm den Aufenthalt hier, so wie die geplante Flucht, irgendwie erschweren könnten. War sie begeistert über seinen unbändig und ungebrechlichen wirkenden Willen, sollte das auch in Ordnung sein. Wie es nämlich in Wahrheit in ihm aussah, wollte sie nicht wissen. Er wüsse selbst nicht einmal, wie er die ganze, momant beschissene Lage, in der er sich nun befand, in Worte fassen, geschweigedenn, beurteilen sollte. Vielleicht lag er gerade irgendwo am Arsch der Welt herum, komatös, ohne Bewusstsein, und sein Körper begonn langsam zu vermodern, in der Sonne zu schmoren und zu Staub zu zerfallen, oder in der eisigen Kälte der Arktis zu bleichen und anschließend zu erstarren. All das hier könnte nur eine wahnwitzige Vorstellung sein, eine Halluzination, hervorgerufen durch die Ereignisse, die ihn in den letzten Monaten gravierend gebrandmarkt und gezeichnet hatten. Man mochte zwar immer behaupten, dass Schmerzen stets ein Symbol dafür waren, dass es kein Traum sein konnte, sondern absolute Wirklichkeit -- doch war das, was er im Moment empfand auch weitaus ab von dem, was er als richtigen 'Schmerz' in Erinnerungen getragen hatte. Das Stechen war zwar da, unangenehm, drückend, wie eine sich ankündigende Welle an Migräne, irgendwie schleichend und matt, aber dennoch präsent und das deutlicher als ihm lieb war. Unangenehmer. Im Moment konnte er also nicht einmal punktgenau feststellen oder sagen, was ihm lieber war : Der pure, eindringliche Schmerz . . . oder das, was auch immer er gerade erfühlen konnte. Wenn es denn ein Gefühl war und kein Hirngespinst seiner angeknacksten Psyche. Ob ihm die Brünette weiterhelfen könnte? Ihm die Fragen beantworten würde, die sich schlagartig und wie ein Haufen von Fliegen auf einem Müllberg anzusammeln schienen, immer mehr und mehr? Sie schien hier auf jeden Fall zu arbeiten, als eine Art Wissenschaftlerin, vielleicht aber auch Ärztin, so sicher war sich Raiden da nicht. Fakt war nur, dass er ihr keinesfalls trauen sollte. NOCH nicht. Vielleicht aber auch niemals. Das käme ganz auf die Umstände an. Verdammter Mist. Wenn er doch wenigstens nur 'Piep' oder irgendetwas anderes, einfaches sagen könnte. Doch seine Kehle war weiterhin wie verschnürt, als würde das Klemmbrett, welches man ihm ins System gepackt hatte, sich keinen Milimeter bewegen. Woran konnte das nur liegen . . . An den Schmerzmitteln, die sie ihm möglicherweise verpasst hatten? Seine Unterlippe fühlte sich tot an, kalt. Nicht wie ein Teil seines Körpers, wohingegen die obere Hälfte langsam aber sicher wieder Empfindungen zuzulassen schien. Es kribbelte zwar auf der Oberfläche der Haut, wann auch immer Metall Fleisch küsste, aber dieses Gefühl kannte er von Zahnarztbesuchen. Taubes Fleisch, nichts weiter.