Ha ha! Finally! A new chapter! How exciting! (Sadly, even I am excited.) Sorry for the uber long wait for an update. I had to finish my honors proposal post haste. I hope you enjoy this at least. :3 R&R!


The world was a crematorium; full of people and always burning.

An old woman turned and simpered sweetly, the material hopes of the world reposing squarely on her arthritic shoulders, a hump in her back. Her brittle hands quaked as she brought bony fingers carefully together like needles into an old cross-stitch pattern, eyes transfixed by the peculiar sight unfolding in the plaza. The smell of money was not only pungent in the air, it was consumed by it; transfigured grotesquely by the depths below, by the very searing flames and brimstone of the pits of Hell that awaited all who were unfortunate enough to find greed within their hearts. She might as well of been on a planet much closer to the sun because this immortal sin had left the air dank and hot, rocked by the disturbance of wealth's Machiavellian touch. Her leather boots were her only anchor into reality; their damaged soles digging into the cobblestones of the street.

If it had not been for their cradling comfort she might of thought she was somewhere other than Mariejois, for, with all the astronauts walking around in broad daylight today, their posh noses pointed straight at the heavens like a compass arrow signaling north, she might as well have been entirely on another planet. The old woman wheezed slightly in the corrosive atmosphere, her wares held forward in her wrinkled palm. The single red apple shone like blood in the harsh daylight.

The grating sound of the application of a hard wire brush echoed in the cosmos like carpenter nails. A fishwoman was gathering dust, crouched low in front of her mistress, the composition of dirt her current area of study. The backless shift dress that she wore was already dyed the color of soot, her tattoo that signaled her position as a slave standing out like a red lesion on her lilac back. Her eyes darted here and there frantically, moving from left to right like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. Minutes were ticking away; her life was on the edge and being prodded harshly by the branding iron she had become accustomed to, and that she knew far too well. The plastic dust pan that she held in her right hand skidded across the uneven expanse of the road, ready to receive its next tribute.

The ugly masterpiece that was the bleached-white buildings of the World Government's capital seemed to yawn at the duo's approach. It held its breath, unwilling to take in something so profane. The sight was enough to stop foot traffic for a month. The fishwoman's yellow bangs hung lank and shaggy in front of her eyes, but that didn't mean that she wasn't able to see all the mouths that hung open, gaping and horrified, and the expanding retinas, so much like daggers into flesh. The girl's spiked, rotund headdress could not hide her prideful shame.

She was collarless.

The entirety of Mariejois seemed to cringe; only a fool would be so bold. Then again, the slave's mistress was certainly no genius. An idiot savant of being an idiot. The sunlight coruscated across her golden half-mask almost reluctantly.

"Make way, make way you buffoons!" called a clerk from his store's entrance, sweat forming on his brow. "It's Saint Velveteen!" If the day hadn't already seemed bleak, it was now infused with the air of a mortuary. People would have started digging their own graves if they had had the shovels and the vigor to do so. The oven that was Mariejois did not allow for much. The one known as "Saint Velveteen" heated it to a state that was unbearable, and the point of her sky-high stilettos punched tiny dots into the entire scene like a typewriter.

The old woman stared warily at the noble's tight, red leather skirt and exposed brazier, half expecting a premature show of paste-white skin. She was also sporting some sort of new technology upon her back; a smaller, more compact oxygen-dispersion apparatus. A creation of the cruel and ingenious Vegapunk, nonetheless. This particular hoyden was obviously some kind of vulgar trendsetter.

There certainly was nothing "saintly" about her.

Now was her chance.

"Oh! What a fine beauty you are!" she cooed as Saint Velveteen came within earshot. The Tenryuubito, having heard similar comments before, ignored the hag's attempt entirely. Her plush lips curled into a scowl that would have made a rabid dog jealous. Harrumphing loud enough for everyone in the plaza to hear, she pulled her fur jacket closer to her skeletal frame before stalking off. The desperate woman, although old as she was, would not give up so easily. She grabbed an especially fine apple from her stall and thrust it forward into the open air like a ruby with an unusual swiftness unsuitable for her age, her bones creaking menacingly in protest at the gesture. "Oh, miss! Hold on! Won't you have just one bite!" she called in a sugar-coated voice. Holding her patched, tartan dress up to allow for movement, the apple vender pushed through a wall of a man to get to the wisp that was Saint Velveteen. The fruit's waxy skin had just brushed against the noble's cheek when the entire scene exploded, the sound of rustling cloth filling the world.

An obvious misstep starts out like bile in your throat, and then slowly chokes the life out of you. The burden of social decorum has yet to cloud the cynic egg.

A quick-pulled trigger painted the filthy gutter with the pathetic, old woman's occipital lobe. Somewhere in the plaza, a baby discovered the willpower to hold back its tears. The warm summer became frozen in the dead of winter, and the slave girl hung her head violently in fear. No one dared to make a move.

"Get your filthy hands away from my face you vile, decrepit hag! How dare you share such close proximity to me! Ugh!" the Tenryuubito shrieked in a delicate voice through the gun smoke, her gray eyes flashing momentarily crimson. She was looking at the still corpse as if it had just grown a tail. Placing the pistol back into its convenient holster within her coat, she decided to raise her voice to the commoners again. "What are you worms looking at? Huh? Are you saddened by my actions or just plain daft? Move along!" she cried shrilly and lazily, lolling her eyes about her skull. She did not have time for such madness.

Saint Velveteen was the type of woman who had had the misfortune of crawling out of her mother's womb screaming, and the pleasure of never ceasing for all thirty-two years of her existence. No one ever seemed to be impressed.

The townspeople, being quite concerned for their own safety, quickly heeded her message, and the normal bustle of Mariejois returned almost instantaneously. Satisfied, the noblewoman affixed her gaze once again into a straight, hard line. She still had her own business to take care of.

"Damn it! Damn it all! Where is that foul, idiot of a girl?" the woman bellowed into the world's ear. The unusual powdered wig that towered precariously above her ghostly features like divine judgment's fist shook as if in agreement. The bubble-like contraption encompassing her head quivered with each foul gush of renewed breath, supplemented by her oxygen tank. Saint Velveteen was more than just upset, she was livid. Her reputation was currently at stake, after all.

Another undesirable has wounded a stately woman as an ancient philosophy rattles past a drawn blank. The Tenryuubito continued her progress down the street.

The fishwoman perked up at this movement and returned to her janitorial duty; a single speck of grime could take away everything. The scratching sound of her brush once again reverberated across the cobblestones, a tiny cloud of particles chasing her as she marked out a clean path for her mistress. The accompanying dust pan was lacking in vigilance, however, and a dainty foot was not it the least bit happy. It was not at all surprising to the crowds occupying the plaza when it connected with the slave's cheek with all the force of a locomotive. Saint Velveteen was not a patient being; the haphazard application of court makeup across the map of her face could only help to attest to that fact. The slave's brain screamed in agony; screamed as it had never done before. She felt asphyxiated, the last bit of oxygen leaking from her wilted lungs, and she collapsed into a heap of forgotten symphony.

"Tonic! You clumsy idiot! Get out of my way! Can't you see that I am busy? Does your fish brain lack the ability to remember why we are here today?" the noble screamed. The girl addressed as "Tonic" lifted her face a millimeter off the ground. The sunlight felt like teeth. "Well? Answer me!" Saint Velveteen roared down upon the slave like a god. She stood up as rapidly as it was physically possibly, rubbing her wounded cheek absentmindedly. Tonic bowed her head like a good, little servant was expected to do and addressed her mistress.

"Yes, Saint Velveteen. I remember. I am so sorry for interrupting. Please have mercy upon me," she replied in a raspy voice, a little too quietly. The Tenryuubito sucked in oxygen aggressively through her nose, causing Tonic to whimper in distress. "It's because of Folly, miss. We need to find Folly," the slave added hurriedly. She could almost feel the cold edge of a knife dance across her jugular. This world was an impersonal world. Sighing like a damaged balloon, the noble attempted to quash her anger, failing miserably. She toyed with her bellybutton ring, twisting it this way and that, as she tried to think. Had she been too bold too let her slaves walk around without collars? Certainly it demonstrated her control, but had it become too dangerous? A foolhardy mistake? Behind this strange anthology laughs a deceptive triumph. Again all eyes were drawn to her. How she had always hated this place.

Burn it down.

Saint Velveteen then did a very strange thing: she yawned. If they were going to stare, she figured that it would be best to seem as uninteresting as possible. It almost worked too.

A stray pyramid of plums died around the corner. The plaza appeared to be engulfed by the color purple momentarily, accentuated by a light blue and very concerned-looking face like a humorless joke.

"Folly", Saint Velveteen whispered with a malicious sneer. Holy retribution was finally at hand. Tonic looked in the direction of the disaster sympathetically as the sharp smell of smoke once again filled the air. Such shenanigans would not be tolerated.

Burn baby, burn.