It doesn't take a genius to realize that they have one obvious thing in common. Her former so-called mentor was his kidnapper. It wasn't an issue for the both of them, however, because she didn't know him and he has never heard of her. But she was aware of her mentor's experiments, and he was aware of the bloody fights in the arena.
Some people say that they both escaped their cruel fate, but they believe otherwise.
"You were rescued."
"You were…let go."
Their midday conversation encountered a lapse when they began speaking about their childhood, or lack thereof, spent in their own individual cages. He in the tank, constantly being pumped with liquid DNA he is forced to consume, to swallow, become. And she in the arena, constantly bombarded with opponents and the continual flow of bloodshed.
"I was the best." She tells him, pressing the rim of the teacup to her bottom lip.
"I'm sure you were." He assures her.
"I was invincible. I killed all of them." She pauses at the thought. "I killed all of them."
They both know, that if he was rescued not before she came into the company of her former mentor, she would be the one sent to retrieve his body, or more likely his corpse. He was six years old, and if only he remained in one of the several tanks of her former mentor for another two or three years, he would have met her.
Maybe they could have been friends.
Maybe she would have fought him, and won.
Or lost.
"You think of yourself as a murderer." He concludes. "A victor maybe?"
"Kill or be killed." She replies swiftly. "I consider myself a survivor."
"I think I'm better suited for that term."
"No." She shakes her head. "I think you're the victor between the two of us."
And it might be true. He might have been the one to triumph over the hold of her mentor, to continually free himself from the chokehold, whilst she was set free, her freedom upon her former mentor's consent.
"He let you go because there was someone younger." He murmurs.
"Someone better." She corrects him.
It is true, at least for her, that she was so easily replaced by the lone prodigy, the last survivor, the victim of his older brother's treachery. He is the boy who plays with fire and has an electric touch. She admits that she is envious of his prowess, if only she had lightning coursing through her veins the same way he does, then maybe she wouldn't have been let go.
Her blood is iron and her skin is steel, she diverts his lightning with magnetism, but she could only do so much. She can still burn the same way steel burns and bends when exposed to hot fire, and she does not possess his bloodline; copying techniques and subjecting their opponents into mental torture, slow down their time and make them vulnerable…
"He learns fast." She adds.
And it is true as well, she teaches him sword techniques and various style and he learns all of them, of is it that he is using his bloodline? Merely copying her movements and mimicking the way she breathes when she cuts the air across his face. He picks up every movement, every bit of hesitation. In a sense, she cannot beat him, but the matches they've shared tell of the opposite.
"I won forty-five out of our fifty-six matches. He plays dirty. He plays well."
"And if he were to battle you now?" He ponders.
"I'd choose to surrender than to burn in the wrath of Amaterasu."
"So you aren't invincible, at least, not to him." He concludes.
And it is true, the truest of the truths she has told him.
"And to you?" She asks.
He doesn't answer. She doesn't ask again. The weather here is warm on most days, but today it is overcast, cold, and their conversation comes to an abrupt halt.
It begins to rain.
