Rockette — Roleplayer Guild


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She can hardly think beyond the cavernous wail inside her soul, it’s a malicious droning that rakes across her bones, varying in pitches, rising higher and higher with a tumultuous panic that multiplies and carries with the raspy, echoing whisper of something. Magdalena knows they are here, but it is not the there that bays wildly for freedom, and not the thing that is scraping against her insides that she cannot reach. A manic, desperate side of her wonders if she peels skin aside and pulls her insides affront, would they be black or red? Her conscious thought fails to grasp in the current premise, because there is a suffocating void that is cinching tight around her heart and there’s nothing here or there even though they are alive.

And that’s something, isn’t it?
She doesn’t know.

For once her sallow skin is devoid of heat, no longer burning and alight like a furnace with coals that shimmer and glow underneath like fissures within volcanic layers. Her alabaster complexion is hardened almost like the clumps of igneous rock, the sewage depths and their cold malice has sucked the heat from her body and her lungs are still riddled with a smog taint that makes her wheeze. Their assailant carves a disoriented path through tainted waters, sloshing within agony and with final moments descending, she felt a profound sense of empathy and was greeted by the smallest flicker of obscurity that was poised on the precipice of battle; watching, observing the death with an intellectual and unwavering darkness with eyes like zydrate vials pulsating with glee. Magdalena pales at the sight, It is here again. It doesn’t say anything this time and merely waves, beckoning and pointing frantically in a direction she cannot see. She drops her weapon back into the myriad of filth around their bodies and clings with near desperation as Olivia’s arm embrace her. Touch is foreign and pain, but she clutches at her friend who is more her beloved than her Captain, and doesn’t care for proper conduct and nearly screams into her. It doesn’t go away this time and something cold and writhing touches her skin, it glides on listlessly with a frigidness that draws her near sobs from her throat, her head lifts from former refuge and watches in fascination as the smog within her lungs and mouth dissipates and conglomerates into a waking slime before rocketing off.

Now she sees where It is pointing, with clawed hands and standing silently as within a vigil and Magdalena’s eyes widen and her brow draws down within sorrow and disbelief. The voices of her companions are mere drones and drift into a incoherent babble beneath all the shock addling her soul, when Olivia leaves her and Kimberly kneels down beside the prone figure, she doesn’t think it’s Emily, it doesn’t seem like Emily and thus it cannot be her. Maybe it’s the pestilent waters that have sloughed and deluged her braid, or have pattered her cheeks in taint, or the writhing thing that is beating on her chest like a secondary film over her heart. Her fingers curl within her palms, scraping her scar, peeling open the lesions on her dexterous fingers and making them weep because her eyes can’t.

In a nearly numb endeavor she fishes her weapon from the waters and houses it across her spine and trudges through the muck with arms pumping and legs aching, she skids to a halt beside Kimberly on the sewer-bed. He’s running common diagnostics on her and Olivia is brushing hands over her brow but Magdalena can only see the carapace wed to her breast and it almost seems alive. Her fingers hover but It is there at her side too and with those clawed hands It snatches her trembling gesture and declines her silently with a shake of Its' shadowy wreathed head. They had just spoken moments before, but time on the surface and the secondary underground seems far away now and the depth of their conversation minuscule, her eyes seek out Remiel within the chaos but do not linger, for the sheer amount of envy she feels towards Emily is staggering. Her fingers instead clutch Kimberly, though decked in damaged armour, she finds purchase on his hands when he attempts to heal the speckled blonde who appears dead and silent.

Does it hurt, she wants to ask. What do you see, what is it like.
But you can’t die, it’s not allowed.

I want to die too.

Her lips won’t part to speak because something is clogging her throat so she seethes and bares her teeth when Emily awakens with a gasp that is kin to a sob. She wants to grasp her shoulders and beg her to come back because she has much more to live for and strive to achieve and accomplish, people like her do not deserve to die. It is people like her that should not live. It lingers at her shoulder and the slow winding of the battle comes to conclusion with this terror when they figure who will carry their friend from the sewers. She glances down at her bleeding, ruined fingers and wills Remi to be the designated person for such, the tenderness she witnesses forces her eyes else where and thus finds Olivia’s gaze. There is something there, lingering, questioning and almost furious in silent precipitousness that is wholly uncharacteristic, especially with the given circumstance, she almost vocalizes her astonishment but they are bidden haste to leave and she doesn’t have the courage to protest otherwise. So Magdalena tucks bleeding fingers around herself and latches on tight to sodden fatigues and with the distant chime of chakri, she follows obediently, silently, and warring inside.

At her shoulder It is there and beyond is the yawning wail of Chaos and her mind is pierced with its screams and it’s only by the sliver of teeth in the pout of her lip that keeps her too from wailing aloud. Her skin warms and her shadows slowly begin to dance, pulsating.

Like a heart beat.

ａｍｂｕｓｈ»

She doesn’t know why but the ambush does not surprise her, in fact Magdalena is almost entirely grateful when the opposing force descends upon them with every intent to take them hostage, alive, or nearly there she supposed. Her apathetic demeanor begets a small hesitation, a warring gift that is met with a slow approach despite her raised arms, her lashes fall slowly and her stare is a piercing detachment when the soldiers nudge her forward, albeit roughly and perhaps with a bewildered cautionary at the shadow banking wide and dark at her heels. She relinquishes her weapons, both chakrams handed over, her chakri are another manner, torn from her wrists when she tries to smuggle them beneath her customized sleeves. Anger boils and she clenches her eyes into sealed, with held moments when they rid her of her rings and even tear away the scarlet band on her wrist. Her skin trembles and boils, enough to make their pawing palms to be scalded, it’s a minor threat but enough to warrant a hard, blunt smash to her temple. The black descends but Magdalena has long been used to the dark and she welcomes it eagerly -for she enjoys being blind.

ｏａｋｒｉｄｇｅ; ＢＡＴＷｗｉｎｇ»

Oak Ridge has long since been his home, and his proverbial hunting grounds, and he knows it rather well in all of its pompous glamour and grandeur. To every polished surface and the glamorous oak tree in which the Academy derives its epitaph from, he admires it, only because nature is ever willing and bending, submitting to none and constantly warring against her human participants. Irony is not lost upon him that mortals naturally cultivate the world to their greedy, selfish vagaries, all because it is a necessity, and sometimes the needs of many and few over shadow the morality of the nature in their selves and here they herald such an iconic symbol: it’s like a badge, he thinks, a truly incongruous, conceptual imbalance. Nature, in all variations, is a peculiar thing, he muses quietly, staring out vacantly from the balcony of his office, there is glass and polished steel and yawning sky above them that is oddly serene, and it’s home despite all perfect imperfections.

It has been his first, and most likely will be his last.

Julian turns his peering occulus to the amble of students drifting to and fro from their routine academics, some old and others new, the recent graduation bidding new applicants to step upon the threshold of Guardianship and other career offers. He has even received new faces to his department, plump and youthful, but eager to please and the malicious scientist needs acquisitive and earnest minds teeming to placate his every whim. His smile flashes at that and in his observations he spots potentials, each flash of lips and skin, hair, eyes, powers that vibrate within the air and the spirits he sometimes watches when they happen to glimmer within sunlight. Julian mentally scribbled down indications and individuals and banks them within memory, a near predatory gleam beckons his eyes and it’s only the soft sweep of the door swishing open out onto his balcony that bids his falconry away. Green eyes, ebony [he wishes it was blonde] tresses sweeping down to her waist in a tumble of curls and fringe sweeping across her brow to conceal her eternally sorrowful glamour. Her complexion is a waning ecru that is gradually paling because of images and appearances that Julian requires, demands and he is only displeased by the malachite gaze that pierces him when she looks - she’s a sad soul, but not sad enough, it’s not like her.

“Rachelle, it’s not often you seek me out.” Julian murmurs, a slow drawl of dismissal that edges his simper into an amused quirk. “What do you want?”

She fidgets, she always does, her nails clear and polished twist around the threads of her attire, sweeping coat and black blouses and skirts, they are decent enough on her hips but she has a sensuality and curvaceous figure that he once again, finds displeasing. Nude lips are bitten numerous times before he snaps his fingers, drawing her from the depths of her heart that he has molded to his image.

“...Oh, we’ve received more tests on the Conrad brothers, and it’s not going so well. The youngest still doesn’t indicate any spiritual activity on our scale, it’s completely void. Where as Cam is steadily improving, Kyle however isn’t so eager to our testing and avoids us on a common basis.” She fell into her report and began shuffling through papers, a quiet whisper of each bleached sheaf that draws his gaze downward to her slender hands.

“I don’t think we’ll be able to harvest much from them, unless they corporate on a whole. Culling the youngest might have to be done if we can’t spring some sort of response from him. The eldest, or well, the one currently present seems antagonize him on a daily basis, we’ve encouraged him to do so, and to instill some isolation, to elicit an emotional breakdown which seems to be a focal point for spirit affinities by given history documents.” Rachelle continues.

“We also have more reports and validations from our newest batch of affinities. One can even alter the fabrics of gravity to the point of telekinetic thrusts, though only in short bursts and with a profound weight limitation, the sister is more telepathic. Her brainwave out puts are quite fascinating,” She briefly waves to the chart folded thrice and hands it over to Julian who hums and idly glances over the aforementioned charting, the peaks and valleys of ink are rather fascination and his simper comes obtuse across his cheeks.

“Her capabilities span not only in differentiating thoughts, but also images within the brain, what she sees within her own are merely illusions but we’ve already started her on controlling certain lobes of her brain to possibly broadcast these images to other minds.” She said and withheld a secondary chart.

“And the brother we’ve began trying to broaden the spectrum of his thrusts into differing weights and distances, so far he has been showing improvements to increments maximizing to an inch. Their prowess though comes from being together, in the same vicinity we’ve noted a spiritual output that doubles, when they touch, it nearly triples, and it seems they almost share spirits.” Julian’s eyes flashed up, his brow lifted.

“I’ve never heard of spirits housing in two separate beings, they usually wed to one host and one host alone.” He says.

“In all reported cases and profiles on Guardians, yes, but this is the first, they’re twins.”

Julian nodded silently to himself and tucked the charts back into her reports, meant to be filed later and felt a stirring in his gut that told of newer heights and expansions of his department if he could fully evaluate the extent of this generous circumstance.

...She was a twin, too.

Invading his thoughts, Julian grows somber in his reflections and tosses his eyes carefully over Rachelle’s figure beneath all of her wardrobe, done purposely. It’s not the same, it never really is, and while he should be reveling in his discoveries, he can only ponder on the sheer loss of her and her friends. Their forces were almost purely destructive, manipulative, withholding power that is utterly begging to be exploited. He clenched his teeth in a forced grin, biting past his aggression and sudden flare of something else he can’t quite identify just yet, or rather he won’t. In that, it means to admit a defeat Julian isn’t prepared to confess to and refuses, a stubborn quality and a even darker desire is the blessed curse of his mind.

“Speak to the boy, he has potential with his intellectual prowess, so I don’t want to dismiss him just yet. Dig into their personal lives, see what you can dig up, even on the eldest brother, for all his light and charm, he must be hiding something.”

Rachelle’s green eyes flickered, wavering only in the slightest as she diligently began scrawling her notes, making crucial bullets as to what he wanted.

“I want the twin’s exercises doubled, put them within simulations of our highest outputs, massive units, soldiers, we must conduct the highest peaks of their spiritual stress and emotional stages. Bring them to their limits.” Julian schemes, his intentions know no bounds or morals, evident in the maladies he has spun within one of the hearts of the Academy’s infamous Guardians: the tiny one, the doll one, the pale beloved. Now he wove a similar cloth in his department, a crude desire for power, weapons, a means to a destruction that seems carelessly malicious rather than planned; a sort of malice that is bred and conceived in the past to be a brought into fruition in the present.

“Their mental states, Julian, too much strain will inevitability cripple their reasoning, we have to prep more tests and simulations before . . .”

All her moral reasoning and justice addled heart only bled out in a meaningless caper, to which the scientist merely tossed his gaze else where in the most disdainful roll he could manage. A briefly glimpse skyward though brought him into another musing; mental states, now that was a familiar concept, wrought into memory by the factual reports of one particular hallucination prone individual: a bear and beast of a man that Julian couldn’t stand to the point of mindless hate, a deep seeded revenge made his soul burn and the man clenched his jaw and fists simultaneously.

Which reminded him. . . He only hoped he could be present in his inevitable breakdown, a slight mix up in the pharmacy by his manipulation - oh it would be wonderful.

“Yes, I get it, Rachelle. But you forget that in here, we, I, do whatever it takes to achieve the results we need.” Julian directed his displeasure and more volatile emotions onto her, brimming to the centre of his being where something stirred in a serpentine wake. Frigid gestures curled like a massive constrictor around her paling hued neck and his eyes, the bi-coloured stare of blue and brown, bore deep into the sea of green that softened and weakened into dull emeralds.

“If you cannot do that, then why are you here? Maybe I should just ask Rui?” He inquired with a biting baritone that shook her to her very bones. Julian though did not await an answer, nothing she could say would satisfy him anyhow; more annoyed than angry, he scowled and released his fingers from her throat and swept over the threshold in his office. Rachelle wracked a sob from her lungs and touched her nails to her skin, the very flesh cold to the touch as if Julian absorbed all heat form her body. She turned, still assuaged by her fear, and quires:

“Where are you going?”

Julian paused, hand cinched around the polished arch of his labeled glass and glanced over his shoulder with the solitary blue of the right side of his veneer.

“I have a colleague to visit.”

ｆａｍｉｌｙｃｕｒｓｅ»

Dreams are fictional, where as nightmares are real.

The curse of the Abendroth family: her mother often spoke of it, because it was wholly truthful. They weren’t religious peoples, Kristoff never bothered to integrate the practice into his family and was fond of fictional beliefs he often found in novelizations. When her friends left to attend whichever service deemed ritual by their families, the Abendroth children frolicked in the streets without a flicker of reservation and worship, idling in their growths and fickle beliefs.

There were many things they did not believe in then other than their nightmares. The elders dreamed of failure and ruin; the twins dreamed of darkness and a netherworld; the youngest dreamed of a dismal abandonment and death. Each generation seemingly burdened and bridled with an obscure reproach and affliction, the twins however, shared this nightmarish qualm and thus felt the others pain and anguish and sometimes, should they wish it, to force and burden their counterpart with their dreams and visions.

Magdalena was such an unfortunate child, her twin delegating her to suffer his own demons quite literally. In the tempestuous void she was wrought with shadows and pain, a small, poor babe cursed to endure silently. None of them saw it, apathetic dolls often betrayed their cracked and porcelain hearts and grew quiet infamous whilst hiding such sorrow.

Her parents often inquired among themselves because of it, silent in the night meant entirely for lovers:

“Why did you want children, Kristoff, if you knew of such a curse would be passed to them?” Gabriele knew she was no exception, after all, dames of her blood lined fared no better than the men of the setting sun; the line of constant and wavering dusk.

“I wanted to see if I could be a better father than my own.” He, a man of boisterous glee and pride, always a beacon of familial love and ever jubilant, would be somber and sullen during these moments; almost guilty. “I guess I failed.”

“We both did, my love.”

ｂｌｏｏｄｙｓｕｎｒｉｓｅｓ»

Wherever she was, it was both cold and warm, a paradox of temperature that made her shudder when finally rousing from her fitful slumber. But, unlike most nights when she attempted to sleep, the transition had been forced but welcomed and the resulting nightmares had been the same, the only difference was that she didn’t feel entirely forlorn and forgotten. Loneliness didn’t impair her unconscious reasoning and reflection and it was pleasant, frightening yes, but such a balm to constantly inflicted and agonizing visions that she buried herself further into the warmth and curled away from the frigidness around her.

Her fingers curl on reflex, flexing, expanding, stretching the dexterous joints out completely as if reaching, yearning, and searching for something - someone. She isn’t quite positive who would be trying to touch her, and it isn’t quiet natural or real, not really there but it’s hear in her mind. A floating mask, a soft smile and an extended palm with long, spindling fingers extended for her small, trembling hand. Magdalena shifts her arm, sweeping through the cold space, grasping nothing but a figment of her dream before calloused digits swept atop her pale hair. The corporeal contact shatters the illusion of the facade made of leather and exotic, pale feathers and she stirs against the warmth, her skin pebbling at the soft whispers breaking through the dream state of her consciousness.

Maggie. . .

Magdalena’s eyes peel back and her lashes fan repeatedly over her cerulean occulus before focusing entirely on a very familiar face and a very familiar beard and a not so familiar lap. Her lips parted, sputtered only to be silenced by Kimberly’s gesturing finger and the following myriad of signs to indicate their silence. She nodded mutely, still taken back by her head pillowing against his comfortable lap and watched as the giant man made his way out from what - she glanced up briefly - looked to be a rather spacious freezer. For a holding cell, it apparently worked, though she didn’t exactly know how long she had been done under and out of her thoughts. She was a little appalled by her unacknowledged venture in seeking out someone to sleep against, but then not too long ago she had been cushioned against Emily’s shoulder.

Her blue eyes glanced over, searching for her then, and fell upon Remi who was still with her, naturally protective - her stare drifted, finding Kimberly’s broad back and for a moment, a wistful part of her wondered if this was concern, and care, a sort of lingering affection that two individuals shared within a private spectrum of heart and soul. Is this what Roy and Thael basked in daily? The two merged and inseparable by a fickle thing such as love. No, maybe not that strong, but . . .

His wife just died, you know.
Oh, right.

Magdalena wasn’t surprised to see It there, crouched in a prone squat with elongated arms tabled across thin knees, the claws attached to each flicking digit scraped the cold floor. Sapphire eyes bore into her skull endlessly and now being so close to It, she noticed the peculiar attachment of shadowy heels that spread and warped to her own figure, as if it was her empathetic obscurity. Her eyes narrowed within conflicted thought before glancing back up, but It was no longer there, just a void of shadow in the dark of the freezer that everyone gradually began evacuating from.

She took up the back, using the wide expanse of her shadows to connect and congeal to the still and eternal obscurities of the entire facility. Almost rigging a circumference meant to alarm them of any approaching hostiles as Kim took point of the entire procession. Magdalena though seemed to linger among the chaotic bloodshed, her eyes transfixed and better described as distracted by the things she saw. It could be perceived as careless animosity and gluttony of destruction and ruin, but to the pale woman, she saw an artfully displayed path; a sort of indicated masterpiece of black and red and within every splash of gelatin carmine she felt a sort of queer familiarity.

And that’s when the howling began.

The further they descended into the unknown chaos, Magdalena’s spirit began to howl, each misconstrued hound and warped, deformed canine pried open their jowls of needles and fangs, their human mouths or hummed behind bony masks, and released a haunting symphony of agony. It was beautiful and horrifying in her mind, cresting higher in their sympathy and pain by the wailing cadence of the forlorn spirits around them. Her body trembled with the wealth of emotion she felt banked within each and every one of them, it was as if they were mourning for something, or someone she could not see. But every apparition they passed, the hounds continued to cry and her shadow began to waver, quaking in fear or sorrow she didn’t know. She stretched out her hand before her and Empathy grasped hold of everyone’s shadow, clinging to their copied obscurities - just in case, she thought as the chorus in her head took over once again.

She felt an intense sort of pity when the spirits continued to waver about without direction or a home, a part of her wanted to take them unto herself, just to give them home, but the darker part of her soul was grateful they didn’t attempt to take refuge within them. Death and sorrow was a not a pleasant thing to absorb or endure, she would know. So she bid her stare elsewhere, following after everyone at a lingering pace and as they grabbed weapons, she did not, her hand to hand combat prowess would serve well enough.

ｂｒｏｋｅｎｄｏｌｌｓ»

They had stopped, thought she doesn’t know why, Magdalena came up behind the troupe with a slight perplexity and her shadow is trembling, so harshly and inflicted by something it can’t explain. The further she walks, each tread light and slow, the wailing within her head crests higher, belting into a crescendo of wild abandon and pain, shadowy hounds warp and run on by and the alabaster environment of her head stills.

And Chaos roars - she hears her name.

Magdalena pushes her way through, skin ablaze and she can’t help but feel the sensation of greeting an old friend, of welcoming something from her shadowed past when she passes on by Kimberly who is staring vacantly at them. She isn’t quiet sure what to expect when Olivia faces a phantom of her dreams, the little girl who was constantly within the glowing oppression of her elder brother and the small, diminutive figure that Magdalena had a particular fondness for whenever she visited the Valentine household upon random intervals. But fondness, she supposes, isn’t the proper word here, maybe it’s more of a kinship feeling, though dull and dead from time, for Magdalena knew the horrid pain of losing your brothers to beasts so alien and forlorn, of the pressure of loss that crippled hearts and minds alike.

Her stare is an apathetic glamour as she struggles to find words, she doesn’t speak save for the soft puffs of breath she releases in her awe. How appropriate that Sofia is here, all the players are present, even Samuel, the game of chess had been laid out and the white and black face off - she just doesn’t know which side of the board she’s on.

Checkmate.

This is her, but then it isn’t. It’s a misplaced facade over whatever this is that stands before them with condescending speech and sadistic bites to her tone. Magdalena wraps her arms around herself, can people come back from the dead? Olivia seems shocked and appalled by all of it, to which she isn’t surprised by, after all the beauty had been crushed with a love for the late boy. But if what Sofia said was true, then everything they knew was absolutely, so very wrong.

“It’s all a lie,” she breathes. “Everything has always been.”

The harsh scraping behind her makes her turn, more out of curiosity though she doesn’t want to tear her eyes off of the little girl who is there but then not. Her blue eyes widen upon the planes of her face when she witnessed Kimberly clawing desperately at the floor, a near panic impression that just isn’t him, not at all. She knew that bear of a man better than most but she couldn’t do anything but stand there with arms clasped around her torso and stare openly in her amazement - shouldn’t she move? But what could she do. Magdalena sliced pallid teeth through her lower lip, with Emily’s near bereavement she had acted on a sudden impulse, a sort of fearful envy of the woman who had almost passed. This was different, some things were similar, but not very many by her account. She did care, she did, but her legs refused to be put into motion.

Olivia however beat her to it, taking over the concern and betterment of their friend and instructing through Kimberly’s madness. It did something inside her, her heart pinged and something struck the organ with a feather light force, bled it out, and suddenly she was moving. Magdalena rushed forward and braced pale hands upon his shoulders, a quick, sudden strike of a physical push that would bring him forth into the actual world. A sort of anchor of what was real rather than the fictional scenery in his mind - whatever it was that he saw. Olivia spoke to him, that was good, but they could only do so much. They needed his medication. Magdalena rotated her eyes in careful succession, peering through the darkness with her bright eyes and fell upon a particular door depressed back into the facility.

She rushed past on Sofia, casting her an acknowledging glance before her arms suddenly fell upon the younger woman. It was a minuscule moment of contact that translated into a hug, an embrace of something and it was appalling for Magdalena to initiate such, but whatever it was that spurred her into Kimberly’s welfare, also reflected in this. She squeezed and tightened her arms momentarily before whisking off again to what had formerly caught her attention. It was a regular door by common means, but a quick knock proved otherwise, Magdalena braced her shoulder and charged at the stationary lock with all the force she could gather in her tiny frame. It barely gave and her following growl summoned up a boiling spit that leaked from her lips, her eyes bore the colour of fire and shadow once again as she melted parts of the door away, the heat of metal did not phase her as she charged with her spheroid joint for the second time.

There was a clatter and she beamed a wide simper at the sight of her weapons and the group’s arsenal. Her pale fingers grappled for her chakram, welcoming the largest circlet home as she slid her smaller one into place on her slung belt. She couldn’t locate her chakri among the mess and pained at their loss, she could replace them easily, but the scarlet band was another story. Magdalena’s eyes searched in vain for the crimson accessory, but time was not in her favour, with a depressed sigh she began to search for Kim’s decimated armour. The configured plating was dented and shredded in various places, proving it useless but she knew of the hidden compartments customized into its bulk.

Please be there, she prayed to whomever would listen as she applied pale fingers to the nook inside and sighed happily at the touch of various objects. She pried them loose and found not what she expected. Along with various pills, some had been crushed in the former fight, she found a picture of a man she did not know. He looked like Kimberly in various ways, the colour of his hair and eyes and the overall expression, next to him was a woman of gold spun hair and green eyes, it pained her to see, for the woman nearly looked like her own mother. Magdalena almost crushed her fingers around the photo but the image of the small child within gave her pause, it was Kimberly - an endearing family photo. Her heart thudded loud within her chest as she shifted through and found a very familiar hairpin topped with a daisy next. Nancy.

Of course he would keep something from his wife, that was entirely natural, but she couldn’t explain the painful beat of her treacherous heart as she closed her fingers around it and examined the third item. It was a pin badge, worn by time and countless handling, an obvious memento from their childhood. They had to be vital to him, clearly indicated by being included with his medication. Magdalena held the precious items to her breast and rushed out from the room.

“Some of the weapon they kept, though not all.” She explained in a rush, coming upon Kimberly and Olivia again as she spoke to Sofia. Did she believe her? She couldn’t discern it among her mind, but it was better than all the lies they knew, her teeth bared at that.

“Here,” gently she ushered Olivia away from his focal point and held the pills affront, though seated, he was still slightly taller than her and the pale woman shifted her fingers through his hair and across her cheeks, proffering further contact in order for him to anchor his consciousness into their reality. She spoke softly, carefully, keeping her cerulean eyes upon his own before she coaxed the pills between his lips and slapped her palm over his mouth, forcing him to swallow the narcotics.

“He’ll be fine.” She muttered, more to herself than anyone and wondered what it was that threw him into such a panic. Her opposite hand trembled with the offerings inside and she passed them into his hand. “I got these for you, I know they’re special.” Magdalena whispered, her gaze heavy with a plethora of things she could not say before she finally backed away from Kimberly, registering that she had reacted upon concern and emotions she wasn’t used to overall in her life. Her lashes swooped down in time to sever the amount of things she felt before becoming distracted by the display of Aaron’s tell tale anger.

He launched himself at Sofia and Magdalena’s eyes narrowed in speculation, quick to act, the first and bidden with haste of their responses in whatever circumstance. They exchanged words, harsh truths and spoken sentences that struck her insides and it bade more light to the simple fact that this wasn’t Sofia anymore and that was something they had to accept despite all reservations of their past.

“Attacking the only person who knows what the hell is going on here isn’t the best course of action, I would say.” Magdalena spoke up, approaching the duo with a flash of her cerulean eyes cast upon Aaron’s face, avoiding his stare, but the depth of blue was ever constant and waving with this newly sprouted courage or emotion of something she could not label. Her light, pale fingers reached up to his shoulder, firm in the grasping of his ruined fatigues as she attempted to placate his anger, her shadow blooming high and wide in the facility and her spirits dancing with their ruby cores pulsating.

“And right now we need to do something other than fighting. Sam is here,” her accented, bell cadence faltered over the name. “Whether we want to believe it or not, but I don’t think, she, would lie.” Magdalena did not know of what appropriate moniker would befit her sadistic and manically gleeful nature, but Sofia no longer seemed fitting by any means. Her fingers fell away from Aaron’s shoulder, falling down to her side as she simply looked up, not seeing the here, but something else that was beyond their sight - as if searching for the not-dead boy somewhere above them.

“At least, that is what I think - anyways.”

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𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

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