A/N: Chapters 7 & 8 written in 2013. Part 2 is softer in tone. Master Cyclonis hates it.

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Triste
Part Two, Chapter One


One hour becomes one day. One day becomes three days. Three days lengthens into seven.

Cyclonis is bored out of her mind with nothing to do except wait for visitors in her tiny prison. Preen herself without the use of a mirror, her jailors fearful the jagged pieces will slide horizontally across blue-veined wrists. There are whistling guards posted at the entrance, a rectangular makeshift bomb shelter just for her, smelling of concrete and stone and dust. And air -

And that is so pure and clean Cyclonis despairs. Purple eyes will never look upon her homeland again. The blue sky is visible from the high barred windows; the smell of ozone settles down from the marshmallow clouds. It brings her the smell of hard packed dirt, the whisper of tall, green grass, and the carefree laughter of Atmosian children.

They won't let her die.

Lethargy settles into her skins and cushions her mind. Tickles the walls of her solitary confinement and teases her out. Loneliness. She misses the hardness of glowing crystals between her fingers, misses the heavy stench of smoke and industry. The mechanical song of war.

She wilts.

This is not her choice of demise, locked away in a broom cupboard. Give her anger and blood to nourish her, not sunshine and a second chance.