A STORM IS COMING ¤¤ Chicagocrimes / private for now

incoming storm.

the whispers of past, they beckon and call, cruel, so cruel in many, many ways. like the fluttering of snow, the secrets, the lies, the treachery, it all gathers beneath feet, cold and biting, prying and eager to make one falter, stumble, into drift. then its a free fall, a plummet, not endless no, of course not. the drop is what kills, but the wait, knowing the inevitable is what hurts most.

winter lifts, rises in the husk of evening and blizzard promising rages, rages with sleet and snow and ice. it leaves pretty fairy meadows cold, cold, a winter wonderland to walk upon and shift through. chicagocrimes, she's moving on own time, at own pace, solo patrol not quite so "solo" for wine, the little red wisp is there, slinking through her feet as dead girl moves along plains.

it's not unusual, not uncommon, for she to be out even in weather so frightening but then, but then ears lift to catch something unusual, uncommon- the stamp of feet in snow, the gentle twang of blades and an anxiety riles, an alarm. chicagocrimes crests the hill without hesitation, moved by curiosity and greedy, greedy thoughts, a thrust towards possessiveness, a call to protect lands, and the beast is ready to do battle with this invader for certainly, certainly that is what it will be.

but then she sees it's him—

—and she freezes. yes, the ice queen freezes. for thoughts wheel back instantly to the days before, where venom and fire spat and sparked and barely, barely had the mother re-routed son. horror and confusion rallied, crushing, crushing and he, her son demanded justice but she could not give it to him. is he her son any longer, is he—? now he stands thunderstorm, vicious, vicious, and he wants to destroy everything, chica knows it, and she can't let that happen. "breakout," she surges the attention onto self with soft pull of tongue, a murmur, staring down the man baring swords with tired eyes, weary bones tensed, waiting, waiting. she knows, she knows what he's here for. scaramouche. devil creature, cybernetic, assassin of voids and apathy, ruthless, ruthless but he is not here, he is not. there's only krieger. krieger, twilight lipped man, being forced into puppetry and made to watch destruction of home, friends, family, another's family, breakout and he . . . is not at fault here. the woman thinks that and she hardens, death walking, steel, "what th' hell are you doin'? go home."

OOC this is a mess lmao, i'm sorry avsvsv

blind, he's blind.

this path is one forged of vengeance, she knows that, knows it truer than the the back of own bloody knuckled hand. as creature who has danced with this igniting, restless fury her riveting lead, her plunge into the darkness of the stage, she knows it better than most. it's a hungering, a thirsting, creature shackled within steel chains that demands to be freed and it can overwhelm all, any. like flames it will devour a soul, any poor hurting soul who dares to step too close with licking chops and blood splashed teeth it invites them in greedily. it ruins a person, no matter how pure, no matter how righteous, tears within them from the inside out. it leaves them rotting, stinking, destroyed until they don't know anything but, until they don't know anything less. it's sunk its claws and teeth into her many times over, dead girl ruined, ruined and rotten and cold, and now?

now it has him in a choke hold.

can he not see, can he not see the teeth poised at his throat? can he not hear past the whispering of the self righteousness, look beyond what he wants and thinks is true, come to fact that it is actually not so? she wants to tell him so badly but- where is the little boy she knows? the one she has had sobbing and heaving at feet, crying with desperation please, please bring my mommy back to me. until own glacier heart boiled and simmered into something tender and soft. the one she raised ashen tinted wing to, held tightly against the hug of rib cage. the one who she promises praise and loved upon, a mother when many dared not be.

then this supposed boy, this very creature she nurtured stands accusing, accusing her of secrets. yet little man never told her of the farm struck down so savagely by end game meteorite. he never told of deathstroke as the one who fathered him, violent savage that has left woman shaking, shaking with thinning horror at self once upon a time ago. he never told of the slaughtering of cartellian leaders, ally clan, nor given reason for doing so. he never told her of his joining the exiles, the smell oh so thick and repulsive in her nostrils.

and she asks herself, she has asked this; is this really him? is this her darius, the little baby boy with troubled heart but eyes so bright, starshine bright? is this her breakout, the man who so boldly tugged forth the tatters and ruins of many, many people and knitted them all together into a kinship, a family to proudly serve beside and call upon? is this her son, son whom she promises to love to the moon and back, to nurture and care for, to love and to hold? the search is careful, careful, but the answer is blunt, harsh.

no.

no.

no.

she knows not the man standing afore her. what is this beast, creature with face of son morphed so devishly and pitifully, fury withheld in the licking of flames, the twang of restless steel? who knows, who knows? not her, not chicago. the realization leaves her cold.

cold, colder than the great frost whipping past her in form of sleety winds, chillier than the yawning glacier rock. "i can't do that." steadying breath, chicagocrimes pushes forward with steely determination, features hard, narrowed upon other and she is daring, daring and bold in slow pursuit, snow crunching underfoot. she doesn't know him, doesn't recognize this fury scorched man, yet still half of a plea touches full lips. even she knows that a fight doesn't have to happen today. "look, krieger ain't th' guy yer lookin' fer, it's not like he wanted ta do . . . if ya just listen-" one last attempt, one more shot at reaching reason but then after? after she has no choice. for she will not stay back as he tears home asunder. she will not stand by as he searches for a man who doesn't even live here, targets instead the puppet, the doll forced under his hand and made to do another's bidding without consent, will, or want, no.

she will not let him bring harm to her people.

ooc: it's all good seina, your health comes first! & woo, 5000th post!

the answer. the truth, oh! the truth is twisted and ruined, bent black and blue, unloved and unsung for. breakout is convinced, in his own abyss stained mind, that he is the sole being, the sole keeper who knows the truth, isn't he? but he only has but a piece of it, just as she does. and with what little he has, he tries to put and squish them together to make sense of something already so senseless. even when she offers it on holy and silver whipped platter, all of it, all she can, she is struck down by hands mottled with fire, with rage.

the labels, they swarm. she's heard them all.

devil's child, for she was concieved under the bitterest of circumstances, a dark stain blotched in coding that she can never truly escape be it the flashing of lilac eyes or the slipping of mother not mother's name. dead girl, last true breath long, long ago, a many winters smothering broken body bent black and blue, rattling bones and peeling flesh. fire girl, for the flame that lifted like hair along arms and shoulders, eternally restless and cruel in biting dictation, dawning anger. ice queen because when world split into one no two no four bits, her fires stills into steely blizzards, incoming storm. now, now new title blossoms.

monster lover. monster lover, for given choice between son or damned man, she takes side of the one who has wronged other. is that what it looks like? yes, but its not the truth. she knows what monster lies within the skin of twilight lipped man, knows now that he is not the same as the other. krieger and scaramouche are separate entities, a complicated mass where one or the other is pulling the strings. demon, a demon has taken to his bones and he begs for freedom, but not again at the hands of death, and that is what chicago pleads. so, monster lover. is it rightly given? no. (no?)

still he spits fury, betrayal lashing eyes so worn and wild. no longer is anything held back, no longer are paws clutching at snowy ground with binding strain; no, breakout leaps forth with pain in his eyes and fury in his ways and chicago is slammed into hardened earth with rattling breath and snarl upon tongue as paws pin, try to hold this beast down. yet all should remember dead girl, dead girl mottled by war and pain and battle so that it's practically a pumping force in very veins. she is not helpless, she is no victim, no. anger is her lifeblood, spite and jealousy her lover; she is a force of reckoning all on her own. the second his force lays atop she do hind legs lift heavenward with promise of a fierce and scathing kick to his gut to make him inch back and allow her to pull back up onto own paws if it can be allowed. talk is over, gone, forgotten, she will not try again. now all that's left is the rot, the ruin, the battle, and that she will remain steadfast for.

/ahsgsg ty seina!! & this is semi rushed bc my phone is dying ahh