Enkryption — Roleplayer Guild

"Wake up."
"Wake up."

"WAKE UP!"

Chuunitrixx gasped, as she woke up. Everything hurt beyond measure; an easy 100/10 and shotgun frowny on the pain scale. Her arm burned -- no, the phantom existence of her arm burned. As if, seething with rage at her overconfidence and ignorance. It was gone. She could still sense it, like a sleeping beast under no-one's control; yet, there was nothing from the cosmetic root down. Why? Why couldn't she reform it? Why? Why couldn't she regain her arm like before? There was no difference, right? It was like before, right? Right? Right?

“Nothing is right.’"
“Never again.”

“How could you do this?”

“Why did you do this?”
“For who did you do this?”

“Selfishly, you did this for you.”

Chuunitrixx screamed out, "Shut up!" as she scanned the room, and held her revolver tightly. However, as she acknowledged the weapon, her body started to tremble, and the weapon was suddenly flung across the room; clattering against the floor. Hyperventilating, Chuunitrixx squeezed her left hand against her hair, and pulled; strands escaping the clutches of her skull, and came free in her balled fist... thin streaks of lustrous silver littered in the wheat blonde.

"Wh-Wha..." Chuunitrixx asks, running her thumb through the light bundle, spreading the two colors apart. "I-I... Wh -- " Jumping to her feet, the Guncaster rushed to a mirror, and looked at herself. It jumped out at her, like a flash in the night; the lack of her arm, the upsetting imbalance of her once perfect form, and marring of her absolute charming appearance. Swelling with tears, Chuunitrixx's eyes worked over her body; adorned in a simple, floral print nightgown. She had forgotten all about her hair, as she saw how immediately incomplete she was.

Eyes ignorant to the subtle streaks of silver, as she could only focus on her damaged form, bitter tears spilled over, as the reality of it settled in, and she threw her fist forward. Reality before her exploded, shards of her worldview burst forth at her or bathed in her blood, and she stared at her broken self through tear-filled eyes.

"How could this happen?" she asked, through choking tears, but had no answer to give, and could only accept her failure......abject and complete. There was nothing to object to, nothing to find subject; her task was to guard, advise, and she'd allowed herself flights of fancy and silly games to distract her. Pride broken, Socrates slumped against Chuunitrixx's bedroom door; behind it, she could hear the shatter of glass in the distance, and the wailing of another defeated soul. "How could this happen," she asked, as she pulled her right hand from her face.

It was fuzzy. Like, the shape was identifiable, but the definition and detail were akin to watercolors. Chuunitrixx was the Prime that everything sourced from; her classes; her talents; her purpose; they were nothing but a fragmented reflection of that. Her damage was extensive, and trickled down to afflict them all. As Chuunitrixx prized her arms, Socrates prized her sharp sight that saw all possibilities, and saw the most optimal route to take. Now, she'd lost half of it, and couldn't regenerate it.

If she was like this, her sibling Overseers were probably equally affected in some way. She needed to find out how, and possibly suspend the Necropolis Gothika Project. Frustrated, Socrates dug her nails into her right cheek; sinking into the flesh, and drawing blood, staining her top with grass-green, as drained.

...she was bleeding off her frustration, insecurity, and adrenaline.

Her jaw unhinged, as she interacted with mechanisms underneath the synthetic flesh and muscles, and she pulled her fingers back. Signing, she wiped her hand clean against her skirt, and looked forward; taking a step forward, and disappeared.

As she vanished, the door behind her opened; paths just missing each other.
Teleportation was hard, if you couldn't see your exact destination. It was Chuunitrixx that had suggested using Mimic and Concreep as triangulation, once Traptrixx has learned how [Hivequeen] and [Mimic] could make a functioning hivemind that spread for miles and miles with their Innate [Hivemind] and [Prime Nucleus] Racial Traits. However, when you, personally, couldn't see, that meant very little.

As such, Socrates found herself smashing into a bookshelf, and sprawled over a deer-skin rug. "Owie..." she groaned, as she rubbed her temple. That really hurt, though, she'd never admit that aloud. There was a sudden, frightened shriek, as a woman was standing upon an extravagant chair -- a chair, Alexander would boast, was made of the fine wood of the forest, and sheathed in a well-worked attire of leather and rabbit fur -- as if that would defend her from the sprawled out threat. Signing, Alexander sat up straight in her seat. "Relax, Marsha, this is my big sister, Socrates," she says, "I've told you of her. Socrates, dear, pick yourself up off the floor."

Socrates groaned, and rolled into her back. "In a minute, swear," she says. Alexander chuffed, "Don't swear, dear sister," she chided, playfully, "it's rude." Socrates groaned in earnest, and sat up. "Have I come at a bad time," she asks. Alexander shook her head, "No. Marsha was discussing our dear Director Superior's doings in Amberden. Seems he's to make a little shadow network, unaware of how much information control we've already established."

To this, Marsha sat and cleared her throat, "Several of my regular girls were approached with quite the proposal, and stood to get rich in a substantial way. Naturally, we've fair loyalty to Miss Alexander, and Lady Chuunitrixx, but they took to it to maintain the secretive nature of our established dealings with Gothika." Alexander nodded. "I agreed to the decision, wholeheartedly," she says, "After all, it's better our dear Director Superior knows what's best for him, right? He's such a busy man, after all."

"If it is, truly, him," Marsha says. "My girls reported they were men with snake-like eyes and serpent tattoos, in cloaks. They were asking about your Lord and your manor," she says, "They thought, mayhaps, they were lost allies, but they did not bare resemblance to any of your Directors' playthings, or the soft-spoken garbage given form; the one, I believe, called Tabula?" Alexander sat up. "Did they offer details, beyond appearance," she asks. "Anything like a name?" Marsha tilted her head, and clicked her tongue. "Maribelle, said they whispered the name Witch Hazel from time to time with immense reverence. Like, she were a goddess."

"She is anything but," Socrates says, standing. "She's caused us a great deal of losses, and will suffer in due time." Marsha gasped, a hand to her lips. "Miss Alexander, is everything well," she asks. "They will be," Alexander says. "The hour is late, my dear!" she says, with a standing boom, as she stood and took Marsha's hands in her own, "Evening draws close in the Quarter, and business awaits the opportunistic. I'll see you off." Marsha, a rather plain, uneventful woman with modesty built into her very framework, blushed from cheek to cheek. "Miss Alexander, you're hands, they tremble," she says. "They tremble in fear of never holding you again," Alexander cooed, her mightily imposing figure standing above Marsha. "Alas, I must bade you farewell thee well, and send you home to house and hearth," she says. "Someday, I won't go," Marsha says.

"Someday," Alexander says, with a kiss, causing Marsha to raise and plant her feet; thus, teleporting her back to where she'd come from thanks to the Proxies that were disguised as her loafers.

"That was disgusting," Socrates says, flatly, as she took the vacant chair.

"Jealous," Alexander asks.

"Of a Human," Socrates scoffed. "Have your flights of fancy, if you will. I would rather not be so casual with a Human," she says, "Those trembles, however. That was a lie, wasn't it?"

Alexander frowned, "Unfortunately. Something happened, and I can't keep my hands stable. I can't hold my gun, much less draw a bowstring..."

"WitCHazel... Morgan, she calls herself, damaged Grandmother in a way that I don't know how to fix," Socrates says. "My eyes... I can barely see more than three feet in front of me, before it starts to blur."

"Plato or Aristotle might have a fix, or something like that," Alexander says, more hopeful than assured. They weren't home. They weren't operating under the rules they knew. As far as she knew, this was inoperable without killing Chuunitrixx, and taking them with her.

Socrates saw her expression, and knew what she was thinking. It hadn't slipped her by, the idea of killing their Grandmother to reset her form, and how that would kill them. If Chuunitrixx resurrected, would they return? Would any of them? They were living beings; independent in their own ways, and sentient of thought.

She was their Prime.

If she was gone, they would die.

"You'll think of something, dear sister," Alexander says, catching Socrates's hand before she could dig it into her cheek. It was trembling so badly. "After all, you're the leader. Thinking is your strong suit," she smirked, "Just point me in the direction you need to, and I'll do what comes best to me. Shakes or none."

Socrates sighed, and held Alexander's hand to her cheek. "Right," she says. "First things first," she stood. "I need to go to Aristotle, and have him make me a pair of glasses. I have our dear Director Superior's Character Sheet, so they are called, but he doesn't seem to have knowledge of optometry. I'm sure Aristotle's studied, since he and Plato wear glasses to, as he claims, appear smarter."

Alexander nodded. "That explains that gaudy outfit of yours. Regardless, sounds like a plan," she says. "As for me, I think I'll suss out these cloaked men of Morgan's. I need to keep my hands busy..."

"So you've room to speak, with those poorly hidden tails. In any case, you've my leave. Do so before anyone else," Socrates says. "Take as many as you can prisoner, and keep them held. I'd like words."

"Of course, dear sister," Alexander says, stretching up; letting two Fox ears pop up in her hair, and a bundle of tails unfurl from the back of her shirt. "Gives me a chance to exercise the Skills of a cute kitten..."

"Happy Hunting, so they say," Socrates says, before stepping backward...
...and, thumping against the dusty roads of Epsilon...

“How elegant,” Aristotle says, dusting his stockings, as Socrates sprayed it with dirt. “Dearest sister, whatever brings you by. Surely, not the scatter that plagues my brain like a dandelion kicked into the summer breeze,” he says, "if you'll excuse the prose." Sorcates groaned, as she just laid on her face. "Shut up," she groused, gathering herself off the ground. "Cosplaying as our dear Director Superior, sister mine," Aristotle asked. "You've a disgustingly abnormal amount of malignancy to you, as is, why add to it?" Socrates rolled her eyes, and fluffed her overcoat. "I've not yet seen a reason to release this Character Sheet," she excuses, simply. "As abjectly disgusting as this form is, even with my beauty upon it. Still, t'is invaluable, the knowledge that our dear Director Superior has."

Socrates extended her hands, and several glyphs appeared in the air. "Ah, the vaunted [Open Link] Skill. It would be handy to have that at your disposal, true," Aristotle says. "" he says, "Still, your attire is deplorable. At least, Alexander took a nice Doppel of Ashara. And, my Doppel of darling Charme is infinitesimally cuter." Socrates groaned. "It's not a beauty pageant, you vapid wench. I almost forgot why I came here," she says. "I can already see. You've been squinting. You can't see well, to the same nature that I cannot keep my focus long," Aristotle says. "I think I can manage long enough to forge you a pair of spectacles. However, why not use your current ones?"

"They are designed for our dear Director Superior's eyes, not mine," Socrates says, in reference to the mask that rested on the side of her head, like a festival mask. "I refuse to submit my entire physiology to him," she says, burning with self-pride, "I'll wear them, when required, and nary a moment longer." Aristotle clicked his tongue, and suddenly fashioned Charme's extravagant cloak with a flourish. "Ara Ara~!" he cooed, "Come along, fussy sister mine. Let's go to my laboratory."

Socrates rolled her eyes hard enough to threaten dislocation, as Aristotle mimicked the insufferable Artificer. It was useful to have the skills of their "betters" on command, in order to increase their field effectiveness; her operational skills rose with Graft's directorial knowledge, Alexander's range increased further with Ashara's magic, and Aristotle's alchemical prowess bloomed brighter with Charme's advanced talents. However, they came with flaws, as well as boons: Socrates's megalomania increased, Alexander's flirtatious nature had nearly doubled, and Aristotle was nearly insufferable, now.

Silently, she prayed that Leonidas and Plato were of better temperaments, as she had no knowledge of who they were supplementing their powers with.

"Just take a seat. Don't mind the decor," Aristotle says, "Having trouble with my Doppel. Charme's very assertive with interior design. I'm sure you understand with our dear Director Superior's mind inside yours," he says, as he exposed Socrates to an excessively designed room fit for a mildly insane woman. "Cosy..." Socrates says, as she sat on a pile of books; there was no room for a chair to be placed. "ndeed,I" Aristotle says. "Hang tight, and I'll start the exam," he stated, as he tussled with some bits and bobs. "Ah. Here we go..." Socrates looked over, as Aristotle fished out an eye exam chart and a doctor’s coat.

"Now, let's start the exam, sweet-hearted sister mine..." Aristotle says, smiling sickeningly sweet. Socrates didn't like that smile in the slightest...
...and with good reason. "That little brat! I'm fat!? Me!? Perfection!? Fat!? I'll strangle his face next time I see him!" Socrates ranted. "So, I'm a little overweight, and I like chocolate cake! I don't have an eating problem! I'm perfect, as I am!" she raged, as she stomped down the halls of Leonidas's Training Barracks, and kicked open a door. "Leonidas! Tell me I'm perfect and not fat! I'm just pleasantly plump! I'm middle-aged! It happens, right!?"

Leonidas looked up from a hardback book, specifically: 'A Farewell To Arms' by Ernest Hemingway; a small bookmark was hung from the left one of her twin, dragon horns.

"...Kath?"

Of all the Chapter Keepers or Facility Managers that complimented her explosive-tempered sister, Socrates did not see Leonidas opting to Doppel the mousy librarian at all. Aside from the explosive, dragon form that she could take on, what could have compelled such a thought process?

"I wanted to bolster my tactical thinking," Leonidas says. "I'm brute smarts," she admitted, "but, it's helpful to be book smart, too, as a warrior and commander." She blushed, raising her book to cover her face. Socrates choked on the pure innocence that radiated off the muscle-bound brute, and shook her head. "Gaaahh... So cute..." she gagged. It was so disgusting. She loved it. "I wanna hug you, so badly, and throw up..." Leonidas whined. "Don't say that! I'll strangle you!" she groused, standing up, before she meeped, as she battered her chair away with her new tail. "Sorry!" she apologized... to the chair.

Socrates threw up a little in her mouth, as her nose bled from how sadistically adorable her sister was -- even in spite of the Dragonoid tail and horns making her appear more as a Beast Lord and not a Dragonoid. "Why did I come here," Socrates asks, adjusting her crimson-tinted, aviator-style (sun)glasses, before taking them off, and fixing them upon her head... deleting her 20/20 vision. "Oh, yeah..." she says, "Leonidas, aside from working on controlling your Doppel, have you noticed something about your physiology change?"

Leonidas looked away from the chair, as she righted it, and patted it. "I'm tired," Leonidas says. "I was training earlier, and I could barely go more than an hour before I started to flag," she says, "Usually, I can train for six hours like a proper warrior, but now... I could barely do half that, before I was dragged in here." Leonidas looked at Socrates, and frowned, before she added, "Moreover, some of my Upgraded Survivors are showing the same failure of stamina at various rates.”

Socrates didn't bother to hide her concern. Whatever this plague was... it was spreading to those below them. Disabilities in the Overseers was one thing -- after all, their Greater Doppelganger Evolution could allow them to overcome them with supplementary skills. However, the Rank and File that was their Upgraded Survivors, and the Cannon Fodder that was the Regulars Survivors... they didn't have such a luxury. If this was spreading throughout the pre-evolutions, then it was assuredly affecting Enderall at her Core.

"I better check on Plato," Socrates says, as she started to worry. "Before I forget, Alexander is looking into a lead on the bitch that attacked us," she says, "I'm suspending your evacuation into the mountains. I'm tasking you with finding and rounding up any local bandits and gathering their leaders, and interrogating them with the buzzwords: Morgan and Ardion." Leonidas sat down, and started writing down the info. "Anyone that reacts favorably, shackle and send to Alexander, then Assimilate the rest," Socrates says, "Enemies of the State shall not be allowed to exist."

"Don't you sound like our dear Director Superior? I don't disagree, however; crush all foe mercilessly, I say, but, what of Aristotle," Leonidas asks, "Even with a Military State behind him, there are even odds of such figures being present amongst the corruption." Socrates nodded, as she opened her hand; revealing the Glyph she held. "As Leonidas says, Aristotle, your task is likewise the same."

"Understood." Aristotle says. "I'll suspend my current trials and begin my search posthaste."

Socrates nodded. "I'll relay this priority to Plato, as well," she says. "If you require me, contact me through the normal means of Proxies or Sentries," Socrates held up the Glyph, "This is a very taxing power to use without full proficiency. I can't use it for extended periods, as our dear Director Superior can, but I can exercise it freely, if needed."

"Baby steps." Aristotle cooed. "I'll be off."

Socrates growled, and closed the connection. "Brat..." she grumbled. "Take to your task as soon as you are able, Leonidas. I'll send additional Concreep Mixers, so you can close off your excavations until this search is complete." Leonidas nodded. "Take care, big sis!" she says, smiling. Socrates nearly threw up again, as she backed out of the room...
...and straight into a snow drift. "COLD! COLD! SO COLD!" she yelped, as she pulled her overcoat tight. "NOBODY TOLD ME THERE WAS A SNOWSTORM GOING ON!" Suddenly, Socrates fell through a pitfall in the snow with a very girly scream befitting her appearance, but not her attitude. As she screamed, the snow and herself were unceremoniously dumped onto a hearth-warmed floor, and she groaned. "Are you done screaming," asks a figure sprawled over a large desk. It was Plato, Socrates realized, only crowned by a rather elegant, yet virginal, caped headdress with large horns and a rounded, armor-like plating aesthetic.

"MAMORU!?" Socrates screeched in pure shock. Leonidas had taken her aback, surely, but Plato was SUPPOSED TO BE THE SMART ONE. "Magic is messy..." Plato says, "I abhor a mess. Unlike my brother, I do not ascribe to the idea of that, "A mess is a sign of progress," in the slightest. A mess is a marker of mistakes, and I do not make mistakes..." Plato yawned, as he remained spread-eagle upon the desk; legs hung off its front, head and shoulder off its back. "You realize you look like a common whore crossbred with a virgin nun, right," Socrates asks. "If you think about it, it bothers you," Plato says, "I don't think about it, so it doesn't bother me. Mamoru's laziness is a boon to that effort."

"It's the same train of thought that keeps you in the halfway form of our dear Director Superior, no," Plato asks. "His mind about business and directorial duties supplementing and expanding yours. Otherwise, you would have surely picked someone more your temperament," he raised a finger, "Kaldorna comes to mind, yours and mine." Socrates balked for a moment, but couldn't refute Plato. He was right. Socrates had come to terms with that, already, but on her own ground. Having Plato uproot it like that was jarring, but only reaffirmed the correctness of her decision. "You are the smart one for a reason," she conceded.

Plato yawned, and lifted his right foot; stocking-clad big toe pointed at Socrates. "Damn right, I am," he says. "I'd be correct to assume, an event has occurred to our livelihood," Plato says, "However, as far as information goes beyond that, the Network has been incomprehensible, lovely sister..." Socrates frowned, "I have been... negligent, I agree. However, I have been woken by the reality we find ourselves in," she clawed at her cheek, "I understand that we are in above our heads, but we are, also, Legion, and have options."

Plato sat up, headdress slumping innocently forward. "I do wish you'd break that habit," he chided. "You'll leave scars." Socrates frowned, stilling her hand. "I can't help it," she says, "[It's inconsequential, at the end of day." Plato tilted his head. "And, I thought I wasn't of my right mind. Normally, your appearance is everything," he says, sliding off the desk. "Regardless, aside from the elephantine beasts that roam, and the magic-enhanced sealife, the only thing of note is the tribal village near us. I had, preemptively, tasked a scouting party of Sentries and Proxies to investigate them. If they have not been overtaken by this sudden snowstorm, I should have a report to send you," he patted Socrates's bloody cheek, and transfused healing into it, "Once you've restored the Network, my lovely Director Superior."

Socrates smirked. "Someday, I will strangle you and Aristotle for being so adorably smartassed," she says, "For now, however, I must gather my life, right my own house, and strengthen the Network. It shall be done before the sun sets." Plato nodded, and hopped back onto his desk. "As soon as I know, so you shall know. If it is urgent, I'll request you [Open Link. I'm sure it taxes you a fair bit," he says, sprawling out, "After all, it's just a mimicry at a percentage, as we all are working in percentages." Socrates didn't even question Plato's accuracy in his assumptions, and just nodded.  "Take it easy," she says, before turning around and teleporting...
...straight into the door that led to Rodias's private chambers. "KYAAH!?" she squealed, as she banged her nose, and her glasses fell onto the floor. "]Oh, yeah... I didn't put my glasses on..."

Suddenly, the door opened, as she'd "knocked" on it, in a fashion, and a Skeleton Butler stood in the threshold, "Apologies, the occupant of this domicile is currently Away. Would you like to leave them a Note?"

Socrates nodded. "Yes," she says, "Tell them, "I'd like to speak to the manager," if you please."

The Skeleton Butler produced a pad, and, dutifully, transcribed the message onto a Note with the tone, date, and orator's name. However, it didn't say, Socrates, but simply, "Karen."

"Is that all?"

"For now," Socrates says, to which the Skeleton Butler bade her goodbye, and returned inside.

Now, with Rodias on notice, more or less, Socrates was free to get her house in order, and repair the Network, so communication with the Settlements would be restored. Surely, somewhere in there, Rodias would find her on the roof; fussing with a very complex system of Proxies and Sentries.

Socrates would find Rodias to arrive within the hour, his footsteps quiet as usual, befitting his roguish nature and skillset as he approached. "You wished to speak with me?" he would question, voice sounding a bit hoarse. "Also...I apologize for my...earlier outburst."

"I did, indeed," Socrates says, looked to Rodias; glasses' lens flared in the waning sunlight. "I felt the need to apologise. For, I haven't a reason. However, I submit that I have failed to do what I was born to," she says, "I'm supposed to be an advisor, and I have advised little from my seated position, and now damage, perhaps incurable, has been dealt to us. I've tasked my siblings to the hunt, but it shall be a while before I know anything of substance."

"You don’t need to apologize. ...You’re just doing your job. Meanwhile, I don’t even know where to begin with my own. All I have is a fleeting vision, and none of the ability to open my eyes to see it in full," Rodias said, sitting down on the rooftop beside Socrates. "...Even in a world like this, the sunset is a sight to behold."

"Sunsets..." Socrates says, turning to look; her light scarring showing in the light. "Humans appreciate these momentary displays of the refraction of the light spectrum..." she says, adjusting her glasses, "I don't understand the fascination with radiation."

"It has nothing to do with something that literal. Its purely subjective," Rodias explained, leaning back. "...Some part of me loathes it. This body doesn’t need that much sleep, but I know that many of the Chateau’s members do. Zouyu will be going to bed soon...if he hasn’t already. ...I failed him too."

"I need neither sleep nor food. I needn't breathe nor drink. My existence is inhuman, and I can't even fake reality. Yet, I try, as do we all. I can't speak for the rest of Gothika's detachment, but Madame Traptrixx's unit seek to do our best..." Socrates says, "Shouldn't you seek that, as well? To do your best, moment to moment? Live as you, and not him?"

Rodias was silent. He didn’t seem to have an answer to that question, as he tilted his head down, trying to ponder. Where was the divide between himself and himself?

"Did I say the wrong thing," Socrates asked, digging into her cheek, unconsciously, "I merely meant, you need choose... forge yourself as Rodias in the here and now, or... continue to hide as the Rodias from then and there."

Rodias would reach out and seize Socrates’ hand to keep her from injuring herself. "...I don’t even know which one is more useful to be."

"Nor do I," Socrates says, as she reflectively blushed; her studies had shown that men felt stronger if women blushed when they held hands. Her methods were unkind and cryptic at most times, but, sometimes, she could do something to just be nice. "I'm of three minds, myself. Am I better as myself, Karen Trapmaine, or our dear Director Superior? Such a question is hard to answer, so I try to make all three work for me." she says, curling her fingers gently around Rodias's, "Perhaps, you should try to put both your minds to work together, and use what you have here with the rules you know to learn those you don't?"

Rodias would gingerly slip his hand free of Socrates’ fingers, looking at the gradually emerging stars. "...I thought I knew how to do all that. But, maybe, the reality of it is...Bandersnatch never needed a Rodias at all. I keep talking about preserving my friends’ memories, when I’m not even sure if they cared to have them be remembered at all."

Socrates didn't mind the retreated hand, as she could shut off her blush. Felt so much better, and didn't make her cheeks itch. "There is no Bandersnatch, only Gothika; this chateau," she says. "There are no memories of anyone else here, beyond us. All that exists here, now, is us. Gothika, the Landless Guild, under the leadership of Rodias."

She took off her glasses, and squinted, "They left you. We didn't. Honor us. Act for us. Be for us," she drew close until her perfect, button nose pressed against his, "I'd like to speak to the Manager. Are you the Manager or not?"

Rodias didn’t especially react to the closeness, instead smirking and saying :"I’d appreciate a little space. Besides...I’ve already decided to act for you all. But Salem’s words...I know that he’s right, in some ways. I’m deluding myself by thinking every aspect of this place is perfect. " Standing, Rodias would look out over the darkening land and sigh softly. "...I can’t even remember if I’ve taken a step off this estate in years, in YGGDRASIL or here."

"Then step off," Socrates was suddenly pressed upon his back; her Doppelled Levels in Chuunitrixx's CS allowed her [Assassin] and [Stalker] Classes to shine for a moment, "I can give you a push..."

And, she did so, shoving Rodias forwards. "Take flight for your own future, and stop letting the past anchor you," Socrates says, "If you sink beneath the tides, we all drown."

Rodias would vanish after a few feet of plummeting, taking off into the night. ...A night out would do him good, for once in his life.

Socrates watched him go, before she reached down, slipped off her shoes, pulled off her stocking, and threw up into the hose. She could only be so nice and selfless for so long! It was the worst! She itched, was queasy, and worst of all, HAPPY. Emptying the contents of her stomach in a purge of the saccharine, the Overseer of Pride looked at the fuzzy ball of gas that was sinking beyond the horizon.

Maybe, there was something to sunsets after all...Dialogue from @The Irish Tree
In the time that Socrates had spent away, Chuunitrixx had been far from idle; her nerves were shot to shit, as she chopped off her hair to try with only hands and a rarely used dagger, only to end up with a unkempt mess and nothing solved. Resisting the urge to scream, she forced herself to focus, and get herself a new Heart.

Amberden, like all places, had those that could be considered, "excusable," and, in return for affording Alexander with information, and helping spread her Mimics further with working Human traders, Chuunitrixx provided a clean up service. It wasn't a Good Samaritan deal, but quid pro quo, as Chuunitrixx was able to access a free supply of hearts for herself and her Overseers. Sure, they weren't anything to brag about, but they were, effectively, free.

For Amberden, it was there Cultists; the wastes of their imperfect society. Now, unfortunate bargain chips in a game that went above and beyond them. Inside of Enderall, they survived; occasionally, they were made sport of, if Alexander or Leonidas needed game, or subject to experiment, if Aristotle made a new tool or Plato fashioned a new spell, but, by and large, they lived a moderate life in a living prison, under Socrates's care.

In a sense. Socrates disliked Humans; ineffective, inefficient, and intolerable to the Greater Doppelganger. Her species was beyond them, and yet, she learned so much from watching them in her vast, social experiment. Sure, becoming Human was a matter of simply reading someone's mind with Surface Telepathy, however, here, in her Zoo... she could see how Humans adapted and learned to survive.

Chuunitrixx didn't see it for that purpose.

To her, it was a blood bank with a side-hustle of organ donations.

And, she needed a heart.

Her presence was nothing short of terror in Divinity, as she stepped off the elevator; her left hand was dug into her cheek, she was chittering, and looked like a bloody mess in a cute nightie with her hair destroyed and arm missing. Immediately, she marched for the Death Row; even in her, free as a bird -- in a cage -- there were standards. Those of violent offenses or heinous crimes were segregated, and first picked to be teleported away.

Execution by Overseers' Purpose.

However, Chuunitrixx played no such role, and did not have such designs, as she looked at the choices that eyes her. New blood saw her as no threat. Confidence. It bred stupidity. Chuunitrixx grinned, as one made a break at her from her right; assuming her missing arm to be a lability. In anyone else, it would have been...

...in her...

"Cease." The order was crisp, clear, and unconsciously commanded. Suddenly, the man started to freeze from the tips of his limbs inwards; his body, painfully, transforming into solid stone under Chuunitrixx's gaze. More important, that of her right eyes; glowering with an iris set as a deep, sickeningly hateful, yellow-brown -- slitted pupil widening on its target.

"Wait? What? No! No! No!" Chuunitrixx says, as she rushed the man, and launched at him; dagger cleaving into his chest, cracking bone and rendered muscle and flesh in equal measure, as she tried to get his heart, only to rip out a half-stone heart from the screaming husk, before it was all solid rock.

Hopelessness overtook Chuunitrixx, as she looked up in anger; her transformed eye blazing, bleeding tears of hatred and regret, as she started to petrify everyone within, literal, sight, until her bloody eye shut from strain and exhaustion, and she collapsed......awakening on a disturbingly comfortable mound of hay, covered by a cotton sheet. That was the second thinfy she noticed, as the first thing was the olfactory landscape of smoke, drugs, and alcohol, as she was dragged into a sectioned off drug den that Socrates allowed to better understand the effects to replicate them properly. Surrounding her were, largely, old people -- seasoned drunks and users -- and foolhardy youths lost in the misamia; ansea of misery and false happiness engulfed her, and she couldn't resist the feeling.

Her own misery was palatable; frustration long given away to sadness and hopelessness. Had they dragged her from the prison to here in hopes of achieving retribution, misplaced designs for revenge, or --

"Here, dear," crooned an old woman, as she passed Chuunitrixx a small case. "In your pockets, some of the younger ones found these. It was emptied," she says, as Chuunitrixx recognized her cigarettes, "but, we found the fools choking on them; trying to smoke such a toxic leaf. Such a dear must be little trouble for a Goddess, however."

Chuunitrixx took no stock in the concept of Divinity; her Racial and her Job Classes benefited in no fashion from belief in a higher order. In fact, [Alchemist] and [Guncaster] were direct challenges to that notion, in general. Still, it bore a great weight for Human, and other creatures of like acceptance, and Chuunitrixx would not take that solace from them. It would provide her no gain, after all, and an unhappy zoo was not worth caring for.

"Th-Thank you,"" Chuunitrixx says. "Someone more capable of handicrafts took the liberty of refilling it," the old woman says, "It might be a sight more than you are used to, however. Our Apothecary doesn't stock Poison Sumac, but he put forth that Belladonna may be more pleasing." Chuunitrixx didn't know what those items were, as her pack just refilled magically, but, it seemed that was no longer the case, or something else was at play. "I'm sure it will suit my needs to calm my nerves," she says, retrieving one of the smokes, and fumbling with her lighter for a moment; she was right-handed, so it took a moment to spark the flame.

...that flame was the last thing she remembered...

A flickering beacon into a brand-new hell.
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