Chapter Text
> ...You drove her home from the city, in the end. A little hard not to fixate on her, despite the road, as if her very presence was somehow loud. This girl, Uselah, was the face behind defunctNephil’s writing. You suppose the curiosity had been eating at you, so the command she had on your attention isn’t too surprising.
> Some things stood out to you as you stole glances at her. Namely, that she seems... suspiciously committed to her hemoanonymity. Heavy use of skin-toned concealer, fully achromatic outfit, satin gloves-- As little skin on display as possible. Surprisingly well-kempt for a homeless girl, too. Rigid but jerky body language, like a puppet tangled up in its own strings. Or a spider caught in its own web, but you’d be biased in the comparison, of course. Like she's wary of the process of motion.
> You're curious about her in a different way, now.
> You pull up to your isolated hive built into a steep cliff overlooking the ocean, deep in the boreal woods, hours from the nearest city. You hold the front door of your hive open for her, making yourself the very image of politeness. There's little demand for tact, when it comes to the desperate. Especially those who have told you a hundred times that they get off on their own victimhood. Especially when you have them alone with you, miles away from any prying eyes. The moment you decide she's far enough inside, you grab a bundle of piano wire from the wall and yank, twisting your body, pulling slack through the series of pulleys hidden in the corners and walls, out of the threads anchored around Uselah.
> She shouts in surprise as she's ensnared, suspended in your hall. A weapon appears in her hand the moment she’s caught, and clatters to the floor as she loses her balance. A handgun, of all things. Not the weapon of someone who has faith in herself in a prolonged fight. You can't help but smile as you approach, relishing her doe-eyed stare.
RAFKEL: 🕸Little moth, walking right into a spider's web...
RAFKEL: 🕸What made you think this was a good idea?
USELAH: h-h🜍🜍h, i, uhm.
USELAH: ...do i h🜍ve good ide🜍s?
RAFKEL: 🕸...Heh. You are adorable when afraid.
RAFKEL: 🕸Dolls like you are so predictable.
USELAH: erhm,
RAFKEL: 🕸You are flustered! Precious.
RAFKEL: 🕸You are blushing under that makeup, are you not? It is a shame to hide the outcome of my efforts from me.
RAFKEL: 🕸We will be ripping that bandage off now, dear.
RAFKEL: 🕸Nobody can help you, you knew that would be the case.
RAFKEL: 🕸You came anyway, so I can only assume you were prepared for this.
> Your abilities prey on confirmation bias. Feed people justification, and then psychically reinforce something that logically follows-- Confirm a belief that already exists somewhere in her mind, even one you've planted. "You were prepared for this". You pull a single strand of the piano wire closer, tightening the garrote against Uselah's throat, watching dispassionately as she squirms, helpless, in pain and fear... And pull back, returning some of the slack, when you see the first shock of color, pinning the bundle of wire to your wall to keep her suspended but not hurt, approaching to pick up her gun and examine her closely.
> Your eyes widen as you recognize a color between gold and olive trickling from the shallow cut on her neck. You grin, more out of intensity than joy, whispering in her ear and pressing her own pistol to the underside of her chin.
RAFKEL: 🕸I could kill you...
USELAH: y-you could... but, you won't.
RAFKEL: 🕸Won't I? I could get away with it. Even be celebrated.
RAFKEL: 🕸You are not supposed to exist. It would be so very simple.
USELAH: ...you're not in it for the c🜍rn🜍ge. it's, the conquest.
USELAH: i'm not. th🜍t stupid. i know 🜍 pred🜍tor who'd w🜍nt me de🜍d from 🜍 pred🜍tor who'd w🜍nt me as theirs.
RAFKEL: 🕸I want a precious thing like you all to myself?
USELAH: mm.
USELAH: even if it's to hurt me. you w🜍nt more th🜍n just the one time. too greedy for th🜍t, you think too long-term for th🜍t.
RAFKEL: 🕸Awfully presumptuous...
> Like you're not propping up that very idea in her head. She's not wrong, of course. You look at the precious, delicate line of lime blood across her throat. She follows your gaze.
USELAH: ...it’s kind of like 🜍 little coll🜍r, though, right...?
RAFKEL: 🕸Ha. Perhaps.
RAFKEL: 🕸...There is not much I could do to genuinely scare you, is there?
RAFKEL: 🕸Little prey animal, baring its throat to me at gunpoint, for whom fear is a matter of course...
USELAH: ...m🜍ybe...
> You lower the pistol. Doubt crosses her face in response. Something she's afraid of, that isn't being hurt, or even killed. It almost seems to have been a reassurance, being threatened…
USELAH: i know th🜍t's. not very exciting.
USELAH: even if you get bored with th🜍t, i c🜍n still be useful...
RAFKEL: 🕸Oh?
USELAH: ...you're 🜍n evenge🜍list. 🜍 pre🜍cher.
RAFKEL: 🕸Done your homework, I see. I am flattered...
USELAH: ...limebloods were killed for their psionics, i figure you know th🜍t much.
RAFKEL: 🕸The only warm-hued caste whose abilities tended to influence the minds of people, yes.
USELAH: ...then you've done yours. well,
USELAH: i nudge the 🜍ttention of everyone in the room tow🜍rds me.
USELAH: ...even if they don't know i'm there.
RAFKEL: 🕸...And that would be why I struggled to focus on the road.
USELAH: eep.
USELAH: i w🜍sn't doing it on purpose! it's, 🜍lw🜍ys on? b🜍sic🜍lly just 🜍 p🜍rt of me...
> You stare at her in bewilderment. You can already figure how she could be useful to you, yes, if you hid her somewhere behind your altar, out of sight from your congregation, make them hang on your every word, but... Being a limeblood who has, at all times, a spotlight focused in on her… You release the bundle of wire on the wall, letting the slack go all at once, dropping her to her knees with a thud.
RAFKEL: 🕸How the fuck have you lived to 9 sweeps?
USELAH: ...how does 🜍ny prey 🜍nim🜍l survive?
USELAH: vigil🜍nce, hiding, 🜍nd. sometimes domestic🜍tion...
> She delicately removes one of her gloves, runs a finger along the thin cut across her neck, and winces in pain. You're under no false impressions as to which she's pursuing here.
RAFKEL: 🕸...We will get you a real one, in due time.
RAFKEL: 🕸Why me, then?
USELAH: i me🜍n... p🜍rt of it w🜍s th🜍t you were there, spoke my l🜍ngu🜍ge, so to spe🜍k?
USELAH: you liked my writing, seemed to get it more th🜍n i'd expect from 🜍 purpleblood.
USELAH: then i looked into you, 🜍nd.
USELAH: ... you're the only one doing 🜍nything sust🜍ining.
USELAH: 🜍nd i need. to be 🜍 p🜍rt of it.
> She's meeting your eyes, a deep intensity in her own. It clicks. That moment of fear earlier, that she responded to by giving you a utilitarian reason to keep her even if you didn't enjoy her company. She cares much more about being needed than winning your love. An ambitious little thing, hoping to become an indispensible keystone in the only movement keeping the reeling world afloat. You smile and offer your hand.
RAFKEL: 🕸I think we can make that happen.