Darsby is reminded of the youth before him by her immediate and emotional reactions. Anora is young, prodigiously young. She is in fact so inconveniently young, in comparison to himself, she may as well have been a fly on its second day of living set to accompany a sixty-year-old retiree who decided that working another day is well worth it by the long run. This metaphor may be found to apply in many respects. 

In his defense, Darsby is set into physical and emotional action by severe injuries sustained during his unspeakable captivity in this weak body. He is actually, by recent natures, a quiet homebody of sorts. His days of dutifully milling about with his as of yet unseen familiar in tasks of constructing greater magics were treasured days indeed. Now, the enormity of annoyance set to accompany his present task had begun setting in after witnessing our girl dash quickly from left to right in both physicality and perspective. Her lack of knowledge allowed her to be propelled from taking on the guardianship of an entire hospital to abandoning all of its residents in less than a minute of thought. Under the sight of tremendously aged eyes, she was momentarily likened to an infant rodent in its early days of self-discovery. 

[i]'This helps no one'[/i] Thought Darsby to himself, pulling his mind from its dust-caked labyrinths of contemplation. He must continue to emulate Anora's youngness in himself for his present tools were comparable to her own. He must not be fully discovered unless absolutely necessary, lest heat greater than hellfire potentially consume all Earth.

"The Men in Black were killed centuries ago. Also, the Secondary Ministries cleaning crew doesn't even operate on Earth. Otherwise... Never mind." Darsby replied in frank frustration after initial confusion over her question. Her pop references had somehow struck upon facts entirely unrelated to their present situation. His feet had spun him into walking towards and entering the car shortly after she yelled at him to join. 

"I'm not an agent. Plus,-" Darsby looks over to Anora with another wave of frustrated confusion overtaking him, his door now shutting with an insulated *thud!* "- how do you have anywhere to be? What else could possibly seem important to you right now?" Stress painted a response which took Anora's words far too seriously as sirens closed proximity on our pairs present location. Darsby opened his palms to hopelessly gesture towards this ebon-clad girl near him, his revolver held loosely by a thin finger. Eventually, he scoffed, sighed, and tightened his hands whilst curling into his seat with a gesture of someone who's given up on figuring out whatever it was they were once trying to resolve.

"What is your deal?" Darsby would say more to himself than anyone else after the question of an invisibility spell is raised. People who were both new to magic and younger than five centuries were not a category of individuals he'd associated with for quite some time now for reasons of his own. Obviously, this personal dilemma was catching up to him. 

Darsby snapped his fingers to perform what he would deem more immediately important magic than invisibility regardless as to whether or not Anora had begun speaking, in fact, Darsby may have waited until Anora began speaking simply to interrupt her. He would have done so without looking directly at her as to not be suspected of childish spite. Someone of his unrevealed rank could hardly be caught being needlessly spiteful. Regretfully, it's a mild habit of his.

The moment Darsby snaps an entirely foreign set of sensations will overtake Anora. Her skin would feel as if it had liquefied, this tingling maelstrom of nerve-based calamity creeping into her muscles then shortly into her skeletal structure. All sensation is folded into itself, her once whole body is melted to take the shape of a curdling wave of chaotic colds and hots. Light and heat splinter her innards whilst rivulets of ice pierce the entirety of what may have once been called her spine. She swirls and bobs as her vision follows suit to this chaotic existence. Roads wrap around the sky and buildings tumble like laundry inside a lazily swirling washer. Anora's perceived world had spun violently again and again as all rules pertaining to balance and gravity are eaten up by liquid dismay. Then all at once, as if her body were a cup and the entirety of her consciousness is a tall drink, she'd be reassembled via 'filling up' the allotted space in her freshly stolen vehicle. Her body and our encapsulating van remained exactly as they were before hell had overtaken them, except, their location had changed after being harshly put back together. Somehow she'd been moved quite a distance during that vivid conundrum. They were on some vaguely familiar country road miles from the city. County road 15 stretched in meandering streaks far into the gently rolling distance ahead. Darsby sits next to Anora, only now he is painted an even paler shade than before. His now truly ivory skin shakes and stretches against an emaciated exterior, that body of his curling into the seat it occupies as if it were but a small creature in a world of menacing giants.

*Hurp!* A hand reflexively grasps at Darsby's mouth as the other feverishly clamors for the nearest door handle. He leaps from the unmoving vehicle to vomit as a pitiful mess of hospital robes and ragged pink hair amidst tall tan weeds. His shoulders heave around an overly curved spine whilst either hand braces a cold hard earth. Fluids spill into waxen roots with each primitive howl of intestinal dismay. 

Eventually, the sickness subsides and our callous escort slumps back upon his sprawling legs. His hunched form holds little pride as either eye remains closed above panting lips. He takes deep and labored breaths, feeling waves of sharp heat stick needles into his stomach and chest. 

"How do you...-" Darsby pauses to breath and lick his lips before continuing. "-I think I've... I've forgotten what it's like to be weak.." For once, his emotional walls were markedly broken beneath closed eyes. His lack of magic reserves and physical stamina had tapped into a voice he hadn't used for a thousand years. This sight, in all its natural calamity, was something of a novelty. Centuries had passed in awaiting this lack of self-restraint.
"I'm not-.." He'd continue, pausing to take several short breaths in expectation of either tears or another wave of regurgitation. "-..I'm not a god Anora... I'm not-I promise...-" He heaves as if nearing another rough spell. He sounds more like a drunk than anything else. "-.. Your planet is small; it's so small... I'm so far awa-*BLEAUughghUHGHu!*" That thin frame topples forward again, bile and dry heaves wrack him about trembling bones. There's nothing left to spit up despite all best efforts. He's ice cold to the touch and looking more human than he has since properly meeting Anora. 

The revolver never leaves his hand. Should Anora touch the weapon, she'd be lightly shocked as if by static and met with a gentle and weak "..stop, please.." from Darsby.