The sky was black, illuminated by the forever-glowing white crescent moon hanging in the heavens. The occasional glass tree dotted the landscape, clear and beautiful and lifeless like crystals. The ruins of some ancient, forgotten building—though the otherwise clean state of the rock said otherwise—could be seen in the distance, the wind whistling through the broken stones.

White and black, white and black. The only other color to be seen was red, bright red; a tiny spot of brightness in the vast sea of silver dunes.

Thp thp thp. A pair of black-sandaled feet stepped out of the shadows and stopped at the blossom of crimson, its source a body lying on the sand. A slender figure bent over and flicked a lock of dark red hair away from the prostrate form's face.

It—he—opened his eyes, and brilliant eyes they were, golden in color. He saw the new arrival and smiled faintly. The woman only glared back at him, her own ruby eyes glinting coldly in the moonlight.

"Fool."

Her voice was cool, flat, harsh, and maybe even a bit angry.

"I told you not to go," she continued, "and this is what you get yourself into."

"Were you worrying about me, Irene?" The gold-eyed man smirked despite the thin line of red dribbling out of his mouth. "Aw, sweet of you."

"What about you, Damian?" Irene spat back, "Weren't we supposed to wait? Wasn't this your idea in the first place? Then you and your temper had to bring it all to nothing!"

Damian sighed a shuddering, rattling sigh. "If it's any comfort to you, I got them all," he said with a touch of pride, "Less work for you, you know."

Irene closed her eyes, pretending not to have heard him, and sat down on her knees a few inches from the top his head, scratching absent-mindedly at the reddened sand with a fingernail.

"Hey, Irene?" He sounded strange. Nervous, almost. "There's no need to go around killing every shinigami you see, alright?"

Irene narrowed her eyes and stared down at him, a look that would have frozen any other man. "Close your mouth for once," she said coolly, "It's almost as if you want to die sooner."

Damian sighed again, his breath sounding heavy and thick. "Yeah, well," he breathed out softly. "It hurts like hell."

The two fell silent then. Irene's features seemed to harbor something like contempt, or anger, which eventually simmered into one of quiet frustration as the seconds—or minutes, or hours, who knew?—ticked slowly by. Neither said a word.

Neither said a word as the wind whispered through the gleaming, crystalline trees, or gently blew a dusting of sand across the desert.

Neither said a word as the lizard inhabitants of their black and white world scuttled and scrabbled in and out of their holes in the sand.

Neither said a word as Damian began to disintegrate and melt away with the eternal night sky, though Irene made a belated half-grab for his dissolving white sleeve, only for it to slip away from her grasp.

Gone.

Irene tightened her jaw ever so slightly and rose from her kneeling position on the ground.

Tch, she thought, clothes billowing gently behind her, typical of a man to leave when there's still work to do.

That was what she told herself, but she knew that neither of them were at fault. One day, the tables would turn. One day… Irene turned and began her journey to their makeshift hideout. She walked away without a backward glance.

Behind her, the bright splashes of red vanished as well, leaving no trace of what had happened there.