Pot calling the kettle black.

[Jaeger D. Wheele]

It was certainly a fine day, the spring air was fresh, a firm yet pleasant breeze passed through the city and the sparkling beams of light from the sun pierced through the lightest and fluffiest looking clouds you could have ever hoped to have seen. Jaeger, the man who cut his way through the ranks to find himself a well established wing commander, sat in the square taking his afternoon tea. Dressed in clothes that were the furthest away from his usual attire, a thin gray t-shirt, the sleeves coming just over his biceps with the words "Free" and "Fall" embroidered into the chest. Over this he wore a long jacket, the heat accommodated a coat quite nicely for the time of year. His coat had an air of regency about it, outward facing lapels, twin tails at the back that fell just short of knee length, with white lace trim beneath the cuffs that hung over the wrist and top of the hand. The back of this outfit had a corset like design, several eyelets with ribbon through them that criss-crossed over each other. He wore jodhpurs, though he had no ability to ride a horse what-so-ever, the tight fit snug against his skin. This was accompanied by a pair of leather boots with military insignia on a buckle on the outside of each boot. This feature wasn't very noticeable though, usually nobody would have even noticed such a thing. But Jaeger had a knack for calling attention to himself. It was most uncommon for his to dress so decoratively outside of uniform but he had been having an odd day, and too much pontificating had warped his mood significantly.

Aside from the eccentric clothing, which was only missing a pompadour hair cut to make him look like something from an opera, he had decided to take his tea in the most awkward place available. Just beside the statue in the square he had requested an iron garden table be placed with three chairs of matching design. And this they had done. Most people would have expected him to invite people to join him, having requested two extra chairs and whatnot, though this was not the case. The chairs were placed around the table in a way that there was a perfectly equal gap between one another, that way none faced another oppositely. To the left of Jaeger sat a large manikin, around 5ft8 in height, made of wood and left unclothed. From each of the joints were pieces of string that ran down to Jaeger's coat. They were hooked up in such a way that his movements would be mimicked by the doll. The chair to the right was empty, he had not invited anyone else, he simply wanted to make it so that he wasn't sitting directly in front of his puppet.

Jaeger had ordered a pot of very strong tea, of course it was fresh from the herbal fields, in-fact whether it was even tea or not could be questioned. It didn't taste like the tea from earth, but it was certainly the closest thing to it, and considering the similarities there was no point splitting hairs over it. The flavor was bitter, overpowered by a fruity flavor that Jaeger wasn't particularly hateful of but would have preferred something a little more sweet. Jaeger had his tea black, no cream or milk was needed, nor did he enjoy the taste of pure sugar, so he had requested none be put out.

And that was how he had decided to spend the next few hours of his day, sitting there enjoying a few cups of strong tea with his manikin. He lifted his cup to his lips, blowing the beverage lightly before taking a long gulp, his doll mirroring this exact motion. He looked over the rim of the fine porcelain they had brought to him, an off-white series with blue roses across the cups side with matching saucers. He pursed his lips, his tongue darting over them to sooth the burning sensation that only kicked in once he had firmly placed the cup down. "A fine day indeed."

[Cap'n Sankari V.]

What happened to her humanity? It tasted like iron in her mouth as she spat out blood -- how many days must go on before the bleeding stopped? Before it all just stopped? The woman momentarily loses her name, her tongue stunned to silence by delirium and the chill of oncoming death. She had no identity but the one single mission she has drilled painfully into her skull with the sheer magnitude of her desperation: to find parts. To find pieces. Anything, anything at all to stop the pain, to put herself back together again. Her life couldn't be over -- she was too greedy for it, sucking it down like fire, her lungs bursting as she creaked and groaned, as her joints strained against the weight of all that metal gone to waste.

Was she swaying now? Shuffling? Nothing more than a beggar, her feet dragging along the floor as she clung to the wall, as she held her head down -- but not in shame. It was too heavy right now, too heavy to lift her neck upright and feel the bite of her chain grinding her down into earth again. Was she made of wood to be whittled into a small little splinter, lost to the strange entanglement of streets and narrow passageways? She was losing herself to hallucinations and past desire, to the pulsing needs of emotions gone rampant and lost; was she really losing control, now? When she was the most vulnerable?

The grinding of her teeth made her jaw crack; her hair fell forward, black as sin, and worse for wear. There was nothing clean about her -- from the pale white skin, so pale it bordered on grey, to the fierce bruising that blackened that grey skin: was she even human anymore? Not only metal, but losing even the last of her remaining flesh to rot. The jacket that covered her shoulder shielded the horror of all that puss and broken skin from the populace; they didn't need to see the white sliver of her collar bone peeking out from her seams. Even the doll is allowed to break.

With needy, clumsy hands, she feels around for a way through the crowds. Sunlight was her enemy, but she had gone beyond rationality. It was only a matter of time before she fell apart, and she needed something, anything to bind herself together long enough to find a mechanic. A surgeon. Anyone willing to put her back together again. Hood pulled up, her right hand reached out, grabbing anything that came within reach and putting it down -- little knickknacks, useless all of it. Trash. Hah, hah! She finds hilarity in the things she touches, and barely feels. Even her sense of touch was fading, and fading fast: was she seeing blurring motion before her? Or was that shadow moving? Sounds are harsh against her ears as she hides under the shadow of her hood, though the rest of her is available to sight. Nothing to do about it now.

Those horrible shorts allow eyes to devour the curve of her hips, the bony pelvic bones pushing out, the hollow beneath her ribs, the stitches, the scarring -- she was a show. Perhaps she could charge. Squinting her eyes to focus, Sankari finds herself drawn toward motion, toward the surging of people, much like the river's current that had bashed her bruised body. It was only a few days ago that she had plunged to her death into the icy river to escape the feds, and yet here she was. Rage should have flickered along her belly, but she was drained by the stress of walking the tightrope across the chasm where her vengeance resided. Death was singing deep in her ear, thrumming so hoarsely she could feel the vibrations in places where only desire had pulsed. But even that had withered and died -- who would ever want to touch her again?

Vanity gave her strength.

Sankari pushes on, unrecognized for now, though it was luck, more than anything else; there was nothing stealthy about the shuffling, agonized walk of the damned. Perhaps it would have been too incredulous for her to be there, and it shielded the truth from their eyes. Perhaps, like she had always suspected, no one gave a shit about what they fought for. Kari's gums ached as her jaw tightened, locked. She didn't quite stumble over the strange sight in the midst of the square -- for wasn't she one too? -- but she moved toward it as if the string that moved that puppet also moved her, closer, and closer, winding tight about her soul as she ghosted closer. Or shuffled. Or crawled. She forgot how to move properly, losing even that bit of conscientiousness. There was no shame left to the girl who threw away everything for a chance at vengeance.

Her hands touched the mannequin, first the head, muttering to herself, "Useless, useless, useless," needing something, anything to keep her arm from falling off. The chains held her tight, but even they weren't going to keep her together for much longer. Just a little longer. Her hand trails down the arm, her eyes widen. "Wh--?" she shakes the stars out of her eyes and sees the mannequin move. A cold sweat dripped down the small of her bony, skeletal back, and as she stared at the man sitting at the table, her hands on his mannequin, all she could think of was Food.

word count;; 918
tags;; puppeteer
OOC;; there. HAH!

[Jaeger D. Wheele]

It was a day of contradictions. He had broken orders to remain inconspicuous by dressing like some sort of Victorian dandy, standing out in public is something frowned upon by the government, especially in the case of a serial killer within their ranks. As well as this he had already gone over the amount of people he was forgiven to have killed in a month by quite a lot, indulging in the death of two schoolgirls who took too much interest in his puppets only that week. Jaeger had taken out one of his combative puppets to top it off, although it posed no real danger when carried without his trademark blades it still held lethal poisoned needles within certain ligaments that could paralyze those who weren't careful around it. He had violated pretty much every limiter put on him by his superiors, even going as far as having everything he did that day charged to the armies financial department. He would more than likely suffer for it upon returning, but what the hell he thought.

At first Jaeger paid little attention to the girl, another stranger he had presumed would pass by with little affect to his world, to him idle pleasantries with citizens of the planet were a waste of time. He lowered his teacup, straightening the frilled lace on his sleeve and twirling his hair in his fingers daintily as he pontificated over the concept of interacting with her or not. Though, as uninterested in her as he would have himself believe he was, he couldn't help but notice the odd manner in which she moved. Her body jerking in strange ways with certain strenuous movements stunned him slightly, it was far too unnatural. He deemed it interesting as subsequently found himself intrigued enough to accept her existence within his perimeter.

As she fondled his puppet he brushed his tongue against the thin pink lips of his, a dogged grin forming across his visage as he eyed the scars on her. From the movements and the scarring he presumed her to be a cripple, some poor creature that had become abhorrently disfigured through past experiences. She made some rather strange sounds, but it wasn't that important to Jaeger what she sounded like, what enticed him was that strikingly unhealthy glow to her flesh.

In his minds eye he thought her to bare a striking similarity to his own dolls, their bisque porcelain faces, the joints and seams that show the love and care of the creator, the time taken putting them together piece by piece until eventually something beautiful had been made. Though she certainly was not like his own masterpieces, she was ragged, imperfect. He closed his eyes to a squint, his view of her blurring, he pictured her as one of his dolls. Turning people into playthings was becoming more and more of a hobby as his duties on the battlefield diminished. The paperwork had become so terribly frequent for him that he even had to take on a secretary to handle some of the work load.

From her shoulders he saw thin red strings that flowed into the sky, in this world of his own there were no clouds, no earth or buildings. She stood with bare flesh above a body of water, held up by thin threads that wrapped around his own body. He moved his hand outward in the same manner a knight would to kiss a maidens hand, unaware that he was doing this in reality as well as his fantasy, the material frayed around his arm, tightened around his neck and began choking him. For a moment he stopped breathing and started to complete his dream like state. His mind removed the scars from her body, ignored the mechanical infrastructure that he was unaware of to exist within her. Just as someone had placed this broken china doll upon a dusty shelf he took the liberty of predicting what she would look like completed. If he fixed the cracks and polished her up she would make quite the toy. Though it was all in his head he suddenly came to the shocking realization that she was touching his other precious plaything.

"AH! Stop! He shouted, completely forgetting that they were in public and resigning himself to having everyone's attention. He then lowered his voice and began to speak in a more palatable tone than one of urgency. "That manikin has several small needles embedded in it's arms, they're laced with poison and I happen to have forgotten the antidote." He smiled honestly at her and raised his cup again, the doll before him mimicking the movement as always. "Care to join me? You look terribly weary."

[Cap'n Sankari V.]

Perhaps the poison in her blood had seeped into her mind, staining her soul withe conflicting emotions that attacked her now: perhaps she was meant to be destroyed in such a silly way -- in such an open place, her hands gripping tight the doll before her. But was it truly just a doll? It moved, it lived in a manner that reminded her of herself. Were they so completely different? It moved because he moved it; she moved for the same reason -- be cause he existed in her sphere, because his heart beat in a human way, and his smile, though cruel, spoke to the helpless little girl that still remained somewhere within the drone.

But could she really give herself over to curiosity? Desperation had given her strength so far, but if she stopped now, she may not be able to keep on going -- imagining herself falling in that seat and dying, to finally feel pampered and cared for (delusions, all of it) would break down the foundation of her strength. Yet Sankari could not even smile in response, nor sneer, nor respond in any way. She stared because he was staring; she stared because her mind was in no shape for calculation or lethality. Instinct moved her, and it had been instinct, and perhaps that little red string of fate that had drawn her ever closer, circling, come closer with each gravitational revolution around him. She shuffled forward, much like the broken doll of his dreams, her seams truly coming undone -- the puss that was hidden under the jacket smelled almost as bad as herself; she was truly a thing thrown in the trash.

A wound that would not heal without the right hands. Could he fix her? Would she be desperate enough to throw herself in his hands and try to escape the consequences afterward? Her mouth is set in blank lines, her eyes dulled and grey as she watches him from under heavy lashes, a glimmer of sleepiness masking the last bit of thought was urging her forward into his care. If she could be what he needed, perhaps she could find out where he had gotten this doll -- perhaps that person, with the right threat, with the right plea, could take needle and thread and put her back together painful stitch by stitch. That simple agony didn't matter to her -- it was the end result she wanted, and she would do anything.

Irony had placed her in front of an enemy she could not name, could not recognize. So they stared, and her mind raced, though the futility of planning and strategem was laughable. They stared, as he fantasized, and she threw herself on Luck's mercy. Blurring motions made her dizzy, but she could not truly focus -- blood matted her shirt, hidden under her jacket, where the rusting iron was peeking out from the welts in her skin; a collar bone was glimpsed, infection setting deeper than she could catch up with. It would spread like a poison. It would kill her before she could ever find her sword in every last one of the government official's heart.

Determination made her harden her heart, her harsh breath softening, though only by a fraction -- she could be normal, if she wanted to. Or she could be whatever he needed to see; anything that would get her what she wanted. Sankari's stony expression didn't display threat -- only the placid face of a good girl, a very good girl. AH! Stop! -- she lets go, startled, checking her violent urge of retaliation; looks blank, blinks twice. Stop what? Thinking? Could she try to stop breathing? Dizziness made her shuffle to the side, the weight of her wretched arm throwing her spine in a crooked line as she leaned left, her good arm grasping onto it. Not too much weight, but she was already skin and bones, and even the skin was disintegrating at a slow rate. She opens her mouth to respond, but he controls himself, That manikin has several small needles embedded in it's arms, they're laced with poison and I happen to have forgotten the antidote. Her fingers curl reflexively, wondering idly if she could somehow insert those in her left arm. Her eyes stray from the strangely dressed man and his mannequin, and look toward her arm -- useless, but with poison it would have a use. Perhaps, perhaps; her smile is one of an idiots.

When he moves again, so, too, does the mannequin; she looks at it, intrigued, Care to join me? You look terribly weary. Without a sound (hah!) she drags her feet toward the chair, holding onto her arm, her back curling in on itself slightly as pain explodes along her ribs. "Did you make th't?" she asks, her voice hoarse, mechanical, as if the curiosity was only courtesy. Her tongue clips against her teeth, her eyelashes trembling in exhaustion. When she sits, her arm catches against the chair, the dull thunk of metal hitting wood impossible to mask; she sinks against it, sighing. She looks out through heavy lidded eyes, only a slit of grey-blur visible as she flicks her gaze to the side, taking in the man, unphased by the way he dresses; wasn't she worse?

word count;; 887
tags;; mastah ~
OOC;; interesting turn o.o; *imagines Kari with poison needles in her mech arm* ... *snickers* ...

[Jaeger D. Wheele]

Thank goodness. She hadn't fallen victim to the puppets poisons, if she had of there was no way he would have been able to explain her death to the officers back at the army base. It's much easier to deal with a dead body when you intended it to be that way. He tilted his head, his smile wide across his mouth as she sat. Then he heard the clunking sound as she took her seat. Weird? He thought it so, perhaps she concealed a blade in her jumper, though why would she take a seated position if she intended to cut him down? He passed the though off as irrational and thought to analyze her a little. She had an awkward figure indeed, scars and stitches all over her body, and more to the oddity she seemed to not care about showing off such things. She wore tight fitting clothes under that jersey, more than likely because it was easy to move in them but Jaeger contemplated the possibility of her using them to increase her feminine charms. He had no interest in physical or emotional attachment to others, but he understood how some people could be attracted by such fleeting desires. The smile faded from his face as he began to pity her, his imagination running wild with ideas of how she might live from day to day.

Jaeger instantly presumed she sold her body, or something of the like, though how one could sell a body that was in such a sorry state did detract from his image of her. Through the thick aroma of his tea he could smell something off about her. His senses were nothing spectacular but even he could notice the hint of decay floating over from her position. Was she rotting? Such a thing wasn't possible by Jaeger's reasoning. She wasn't anything to look at sure, but she wasn't dead. He glanced her over, the white of her collarbone struck him dumbfounded, the odd shapes beneath the jumper, like gears, bolts, a whole assortment of shapes that gave birth to dilemmas all their own. he shrugged it off though, perhaps she had suffered a little more than he first thought.

He his the grimace at the stench behind another grin, unable to think of any other facial expression to show her. He lean over the table, resting his chin in his left palm and using his right forearm to support his weight. Her eyes gave him a hollow feeling, though he liked that about her. She was like a blank canvas, slightly torn at the edges and stained by the lazy artists coffee mug, but still wielding potential.

The thought to lead her away and turn her into a puppet of his was now fleeing the corners of his mind. Instead he wanted to watch her a little, to figure out what hid beneath that vacant expression. Then it hit him. The first utterance of a word from her lips. It was like heaven served out to him on a plate. From this single question he gained substance to desire her company longer. It wasn't simply a meal for him to pick at, he would dive in with his hands and strip the meat from the bones. His eyes lit up like a child when meeting a brand new bicycle for their birthday. A genuinely excited look was immediately thrown onto his face as if he has ran down the stairs on Christmas morning to unwrap the presets beneath the tree in a frenzy of paper and ribbons.

"You like puppets?!" He nearly bounced out of his seat, leaning over the table further to try and see if she showed real interest. "Yes, I made this one. He's a little sloppy around the edges but I'm proud of him." He blinked a few times in silent glee. "I knew you liked him, you're one of a kind too right?" He placed his hand down on the table, tapping on the iron frame with his fingernails. "Please, drink, order food if you like, the army is paying for it anyway. I can't believe I found something this interesting on my day off, lucky."

[Cap'n Sankari V.]

They were a punished lot; sent here to rot away as the darkness consumed them day in and day out. The men and women of the encampment slumbered under broken rooftops, awaiting death with a willing blankness; the the men and women who worked for the government so completely lost in the cycle of pens and papers, of lost money, and bounties, couldn't identify the person in the mirror when morning brightened their doorstep. It was the same with her crew, crowding up behind her, too afraid to stand before her, but more than willing to be in her shadow -- as if she were some God. As if Godhead could really be decided by someone low-born. As if she could ever be the hero they needed -- it suited her fine if the Gods thought they could wield her like some weapon; suited her fine when she had a God or two on her side, if it meant they all died.

It hinged on the next few days, as the world continued getting darker and darker, as the blood began to run black, not red -- she would die of simple contagion, infection imbedding itself so deep it could never be scooped out; her blankness is the creation of the federation, it is the voice of the gods that spoke to her like any other human, placing her higher and higher until she couldn't even fathom a time when her feet ever touched the ground. Yet here she was, nearly crawling in mud; filthy in her soul, the stench nauseating to those who knew what it meant.

His eyes probed her -- but she had nothing to hide: she is fearless, with death as her close lover. With rage and sorrow as her companions; with hell only a step before her feet. She walked the edge, for sure, but it was with the strength of the inevitable, the careless humor of one too used to the same old high. So he watches her, notices the little quirks, the machinations that make the woman, and possibly even the doll, but she is far away, almost unreachable. His hands remain on the table, and only his eyes can taste the rot that lingers on her skin, the crevices full of sores and broken blood vessels. Sankari doesn't know the stream of his consciousness, but it doesn't take much to realize that the pleasant face is just a mask, much like her own that simply stares and stares.

It's safer when the world is drowned out by white static, buzzing around her ears-- in this world, this little sphere she has created, it is simpler to steal a man's life, simpler to feel the blood oozing on her skin, mixing with her own as she stumbles from the wreckage. Harder to have left it all behind with an honest face and call it justice.

You like puppets?!

[/i] -- Sankari doesn't startle easily; she is much like her gears, moving only when completely necessary, tilting her head to watch him, those slits opening up just a little more: a glimmer of humanity among the silence of the droid that screams out at the world. Yes, I made this one. He's a little sloppy around the edges but I'm proud of him.[/i] -- Sloppy?

The man's voice drags on and on, fading away as her eyes slip over toward the mannequin, wanting to touch it again, uneasy in doing so with all those needles hidden in every which way; yet she cannot help but be transported, her eyes opening up a little more as she watches it, every motion it mimics, every glimmer of life she perceives. It lives, she is sure of it -- because he has made it so; and perhaps, despite her delusion, he could do the same to her. Her honest comes in clear: she is interested in the puppet, in the making of it. She watches the way the shoulders move, seamless and perfect, without the strain with which she wields her own; Sankari, perhaps, falls a little bit in love with that motion, with that ease that is so irresistible to one who cannot strengthen herself to carry her own weight.

But the option was here, clear and waiting for her to simply reach out and take it; his voice has completely faded out, the static rising up to overtake her senses. The drone wanted it, wanted to study each nook and cranny. Sloppy? He is a work of art -- and she wants to mimic it as much as it wants to mimic it's master. Eventually her eyes trail back toward him, her interest clear. "It's .... lovely." her voice careful, as if tasting the word as she says it, almost joyful, almost not. Leaning forward toward him, much slower, much more like a serpent than the fluttering of all his high energy, she meets his eyes, "D'ya make them for 'ther people?" again, the hoarse rumble of her voice, not used to speaking after such a long silence.

Much more pathetic: the meager hunger she had fostered all day has evaporated.
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word count;; 856
tags;; Jaeger
OOC;; OwO we're all crazy.

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[Jaeger D. Wheele]

Jaeger fell back into his chair, his shoulder slumped back and his arms falling over the back of the chair. He held his face upward toward the sky and bellowed out a laugh. A laugh that quickly diminished into a giggle, his voice breaking into high notes that showed his excitement. Such honesty baffled him. It enthralled every synapse within his brain, every nerve stood on edge, unable to rest with the brimming possibilities she could fulfill for the puppet master come army hound that he was. She truly thought his work to be 'lovely'? Jaeger had never met someone who understood his art. No. It wasn't art. It was all he had, before his desire to end all life on Staherra. Before the hatred for anything holier than he himself, he had those dolls. Dolls and the music he made them dance to. Every fiber of his being had been etched into those manikins. Blood, sweat and tears couldn't even begin to describe the effort he spend whittling away at the wooden joints that held them together. That was without branching into the elaborate porcelain molds that were used on his better pieces. The one that sat with them was but a prototype, an older model that he simply hadn't parted with through the slightest hint of an emotional attachment to it.

Would he make them for others? No-one had ever wanted one. It was the only answer that came to him. Did she want one? Someone desired something of him other than bloodshed, it was unheard of for him. Jaeger had only one perception of himself in another's eye, that he was a tool for war, for war and nothing else.

He drove a hand hard into one of his pockets, dragging the entrails of the lining out and onto the table. A few wooden lugs, some peryton wax for rubbing down his puppet, some strings, a decanter that held a substance close to whiskey that he had detained from a new recruit. There they were, a pack of cigarettes and a pack of matches. He wasted no time in striking the match and inhaling hard on a smoke. His lips formed an air tight seal around the filter, it permeated the air, completely covering the smell of his new found acquaintance. As the smoke filled his throat he began choking. He wasn't a smoker by nature, it was a trait in those he socialized with in the army, something he picked up without ever desiring so. Again his contradictions came through.

He stood up straight. Placing one hand over his breast as if he were making a prayer, the other outstretching toward this young lady. "I'm Jaeger," he declared it with pride, if she thought him of some use other than murder he would try to fulfill it to his utmost skill. "Lets make you a puppet!" He roared out another laugh, forgetting himself in all the joy that filled his soul for that brief moment. "Of course, I'd request you~" he went somewhat quiet, unable to finish his sentence.

He found himself staring down at her and thinking hard on whether he had forgotten something. There was an irking inside him. A familiarity about her that wasn't important but left him feeling a little saddened all the same to not know what it was. Whilst looking down at her he caught a glimpse of the edge of her collarbone. Where her bone ended it seemed like the whole shoulder had some sort of abstract shape about it. compared to the other side it looked solid and hard, he hadn't even paid attention to the fact that her arm itself was in-fact a mechanism in and of itself. "Are you brok~" he stopped himself from asking a question he believed insane. Even someone who accepts their own grasp on reality is weak should be capable of having some restraint. He desperately didn't want to ruin the situation either. Another smile, he had smiled a lot that day, perhaps a little too much. What if he smiled too much and never got a chance to smile again? There was no point worrying about it, who knew when he would have a chance to have a day like this again.

[Cap'n Sankari V.]

His laughter wasn't infectious -- it wasn't anything she could understand. There was so much happiness in his expression, in the way the sound slipped up higher than the clouds, as if it held no weight because it had no sadness. It wasn't something she could ever feel: though her heart was human, it had been cast aside. Though her body throbbed with the pain of the living, she was still so cold inside it, so cold it burned her. So cold, she nearly glowed, like ice thrown against a backdrop of light, showing colors she never even knew existed in a void of hate. Colors that only, she realized, could be seen when one's mind was filled with the vile black rot of self-hatred and vengeance.

It was so striking, this vivid contrast between themsleves, rendering everything in stark black and whites in a blinding moment of clarity. He was happy -- in this exact breath of time, not before, not after, but this significant moment, he felt full to the brim with happiness. And herself? Did she even remember what happiness was? the feeling had warped -- she warmed at the sight of that beautiful thing beside her, full of seamless, graceful movement, aching to be the same, to find in it, a version of herself whittled down so small she could just pick it up. But it was nothing to the cold that quickly over took it all. It was nothing at all, when compared to the genuine glee that resonated in his voice, trembling around his body as he stood up so quick, his motions startling and energetic. Beside him, she was a snail, a sloth, a creature that did not react on the same wavelength as his own. I'm Jaeger!

[/i] his voice is a gust of wind, blowing her down.

She tilts her head up to look at him, but the expression is slow to change, slow to react, pupils honing in on him. Could she move faster? Perhaps, if the need arose -- if blade came swinging at her, she'd be quick to fall, quick to use leverage, but that strength is costly, she hordes it like a jealous wife, holding tight onto it for fear of it running away. The woman remains in this strange sort of languor, moving only when necessary, speaking only when completely necessary -- though curiosity has certainly piqued her, though his expression is one that easily sways others to open up. Such exuberance! It was as bright as the sun; it's heat beamed at her, but she refused to budge under it. Let's make you a puppet![/i] He cries out -- and this time she looks, paranoia making her second-guess her easily acquired self-assurance. Others stare back at her, but not for the reason she dreaded. They stared, because these two actors dancing together in a deadly duet were one of the strangest combination of man and woman to have ever crossed paths. Her eyes lower away from it, her neck hurting, head getting dizzier and lighter between waves. Of course, I'd request you~[/i]

Sankari turned her gaze on him again as he suddenly stops to find him staring at her, puzzling over something in his mind; her eyebrows tense, slipping closer together, not quite comfortable with the way he stared, the way he thought so ponderously slow. As if he were savoring some delightful little secret he had found about her; paranoia made her edgy, tensed -- tensing further when he spoke up again, as abruptly as he started: Are you brok~[/i] Again, the stop, but a shiver had run down her spine. Kari jerked, like a machine not quite wired correctly, her right hand reaching to cover up the little bit of her left shoulder that had been glimpsed beneath the jersey. "'Course not." she mumbles, rising quickly to her feet, her joints creaking like an old woman's, bones cracking as if she had been sitting for way too long. Yet she couldn't let go of her arm -- her hand clutched at her shoulder, feeling the tension in her back twisting everything up, gnawing at her, building all of that anxiety that had flitted away right back into her bones.

This was the cycle she hated, the cycle she loathed more than anything. Humanity came and went in waves, and eventually she knew that the tide would never rise again and she'd be left with less and less of anything rational. Her grey-blue eyes surged with colorful emotion as she forced herself to let go of her arm, to reach out and offer it, "Andronika." she says, trying not to choke on the name she had left behind years ago. Like her haunting dream, it rose again and again, regurgitated in life, as she had, over and over again. "'re you really good with puppets, sir?" she asks, hand still held out, "I have a proposition, if you're willin' to hear 't."
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word count;; 828
tags;; Jaeger <3
OOC;; la-la-la-laaa ~

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[Jaeger D. Wheele]

Jaeger's head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as he mouthed her name back to himself. It was an oddity of a name, conjecture filled his mind how someone could give their child a name so cold sounding. The syllables rolled around in his mouth, snapping at his tongue as he struggled with the pronunciation in his minds eye. It simply wouldn't do, he had found someone who shared his passion, he couldn't possibly call them with such a name. He tried to not show his displeasure at it, though he probably failed, his facades were nowhere near the level he would require to deceive this young lady. He edged his hand closer over to hers. Not quite touching, his fingertips halting at the suggestion of her desiring his skills. Would he break rules and take the forbidden fruit? If he stole her away and turned her into his own plaything, a doll everlasting, a figure dancing away in the moonlight to his whim, would he regret it? Would he be cast out of the Eden he had found in the armies care?

Though she could have very easily passed off as a doll as it was anyway, her expressions lacked sincerity to Jaeger. What emotions actually flowed through that mind, those eyes showed nothing to him. Steely blue orbs that pierced his inspiration like some cherubim wielding the arrow of attraction. Though it seemed the arrow was dipped in a poison called probability. Jaeger knew this woman from somewhere, somewhere he wished he didn't and it was starting to wear down on his joyous feelings. He feared that the reasons for the familiarity were nothing good, but made the conscious decision to overlook such things.

Contrived as his actions that day had been he saw no reason to break the trend and begin to act serious. He made the contact he had waited for. His fingers wrapping around her wrist loosely to shake her hand. She was evidently bothered by her appearance beneath that jumper. Something about this girl was wrong, she was in pain of an immense scale capable of contorting her movements and making her body resonate with some seriously unhealthy sounds. Jaeger was the type who enjoyed fixing things, broken toys discarded by city children, old wooden fixtures that were deemed no longer worth keeping he would take in and repair. No. Repairing was not his skill. He contorted their original design, broke the mold and made something new out of wasted materials, he recycled them and gave them a purpose once again.

"Ahne-droh-knee-car" He slurred the words into a jumble of sounds, "Hmm. Doesn't really work when I say it I suppose." He coyly giggled, hoping she would find it as humorous as he that it was so difficult for him to say it. "How about Anne? I can say that at least." He was bubbling inside, his desire to hear her request tearing him apart at the seams. "I'll tell you now, I'm going to accept your request irrelevant of what you ask." He leaned forward and lowered his tone, a slight tint of the melancholy he had been suffering from lately filling his tones. Jaeger's homicidal side was starting to intervene with his consciousness, something about her made blood boil and hairs stand on edge and he liked it. "I've been pottering around far too long without true inspiration. If you need my art, I'll give you a canvas like none ever seen before." He furled his lips, his teeth brimming in a tight jawed grin. "I'm not just good with puppets, I'm a puppet master."

[Cap'n Sankari V.]

He was exactly what she needed -- every bone and sinew that created his existence, each wave that provoked thought and interest: he was everything that she had craved, everything that would perfect the world she was creating for herself. This world, without bounds; this world, yes, yes, burning up in flames. The flames of hate, or desire -- either way, they burned the same, and building would crash to the ground, men and women would cry: this is what she wanted. To see her shame and her hatred reflected in their eyes, to smell the stink of their fear and dream of their screams. To hear them, even while she slipped away into oblivion; but the body she had, the body she had claimed for herself was no longer working -- the metal clasp fell off the knob of her shoulder, dislocating, hurting her, infuriating her with the agony of not being able to fix herself.

This infection was going to kill her faster than the fumes she left in her wake; his excitement may not be infectious, but it gave her warmth anyway. It made her feel as if she could reach out and fix all the wrongs that had happened the moment she had taken the plunge under water. Her idiocy had cost her, but she would fix it all, and continue onward -- and he held the key. A key, so willingly handed over and placed in her hand. Did he even know how precious this talent was? Did anyone realize how keenly she needed him, how stupid it was to let him lie around, ready to be picked up?

Much like an abandoned toy, she was picking him up, dusting him off -- her fingers were light against his, her eyes brightening, becoming full of life, the haphazard need to continue on sinking deeper in her subconscious. He had already agreed; agreed before any money could pass fingers, before the words could pass her lips. Would he regret it? Sankari didn't care. Her mind was already casting farther away than where they were. No longer residing in the what-if, she was already making plans for when she could have a mobile limb again. What she had to do on the ship to force them under her heel again, to smash their faces with her boot and throw them over the rail. There were whispering of a mutiny, wondering if she had ever been alive -- even with the Gods behind her, they didn't believe.

Sankari couldn't blame them for distrusting the Gods, but that didn't mean she would let them take her. It didn't mean that she would let them fester and chatter like cows and find a way to replace her. No, no -- this place she had climbed was the perfect one for her right now. If she fell, it would be of her own choosing, once everything had fallen in accordance to her wishes.

I'll tell you now, I'm going to accept your request irrelevant of what you ask.

[/i] She doesn't quite smile, but her expression has become easier, become something almost human again. He would be a perfect adornment on her ship -- her own personal little elf tinkering away in the shadow, unbeknownst to the crew that it was she, and not the ship that he tinkered. It tickled her funny bone in the quaintest way; the same way it tickled her to see them eye the Goddess that lingered on her ship, ever watchful of the weapon she had chosen. I've been pottering around far too long without true inspiration. If you need my art, I'll give you a canvas like none ever seen before.[/b] A pause that he filled with a grin that enthused her, made her ever-rising determination sting like metal on her tongue, I'm not just good with puppets, I'm a puppet master.[/i]

Her eyes narrow, blue flames seeming to spark within the depths of her soul as all of that strength she hordes zings through her body, "I will be your canvas. -- straight, to the point; there was no need to hedge words. If it came to it, she would kill him. If it ever came to it, there was nothing in her that would hesitate to pull her blade and plunge it into his gut; yet there was no reason to threaten him. "Come with me, if you're interested," she says, her voice still threaded with harsh tones, raw as she tasted more blood on her tongue. Internal bleeding? Kenneth had better be within the encampment as she spoke; Sankari was in need of a flower aboard her ship, after all.

When she finally smiled, there was nothing pretty about it; nothing sweet, or coaxing. All harsh, cold lines, not quite satisfied, but purely made of brutal whimsy. The girl would suffice, for now. So, too, would Jaeger. In the end, they weren't too different, after all. "Bring your puppet with you." she says, imagining her room decorated with him sitting at her desk; delight curled tight in her belly. Yes, yes, it'll do.

No amount of interference could really destroy her path; it was destined. Fully believing it, she strides forward with a backward, questioning glance, her bones creaking, but a particular strength shivering through her posture. Was she getting younger? Or was it all illusion?
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word count;; 896
tags;; JJ ~
OOC;; I'll kill him afterward, or do you just want to stop rping altogether and just assume she killed him after fixing her arm?

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