Disclaimer: I don't own Chrono Crusade. Duh. (There's be a lot more lime in it if I did. XD)
Author's Note: Stress, stress, stress. Everywhere! AAAAAAUGH! (cries)
. . . uh. . . yeah. I'm sure you guys want to hear nothing more about it.
Anyway, thanks for all the reviews! I can't wait to see what y'all will think of the rest of the story. (Which won't be that long.)
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Excerpt from: Report #23748666
Location: Magdalene Clinic for the Mentally Unstable (BURNED DOWN: 10/1/XX; NEVER REOPENED
Original Print Date: October 31, 2XXX
There are many theories in today's—and yesterday's— curious world concerning the highly controversial "science" of psychics. Telepaths, empaths, seers, mediators. . . but perhaps, most of all, those with the power of telekinesis.
Telekinesis. The ability to move objects only with one's mind. A favorite obsession of occult freaks and science fiction buffs. But in the real world. . . for those of us with our feet firmly planted on the ground. . . we have to wonder: is it really possible? Many dismiss the mere idea, certain that it is a hoax, while others not only believe in its existence, but insist that they can harness this magic.
Rosette was not one of those people.
She never claimed to be telekinetic. In fact, when questioned as such she blatantly corrected me. Her brain was not moving the items, she assured. Her will was.
Her will and "the hands of Time."
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DEVIL MASTER
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"Lands far across the sea. . . seem to be calling me. Far away, hear them say, won't you come and see?"
It is her voice that wakes me. Slowly, sweetly— like a gentle wave lapping at my senses, tenderly leading me from the world of dreamless sleep. And though I resist the gentle tugging for all I'm worth, (knowing that an unearthly throbbing pain awaits me in consciousness,) I utterly lose the battle.
My eyes open. I look around.
"Someday when I am grown—when I am on my own—this I know, I will go, to the lands that call to me."
The darkness has not changed since I fainted. Her expression has not changed, either. The only sign to show that some sort of time has passed is the pounding headache I now have; proof of my fall. Proof of the horrors in this room. That we're not just floating in some sort of suspended animation. . .
She smiles.
"What. . ." My voice sounds rusty to my own ears. How long have I been out? Groping through the shadows, I managed to pull myself back onto my metal chair. I have no idea where my clipboard disappeared to.
For the moment, I don't care. I'm still alive.
"What. . . what now?"
Rosette seems amused by this question, cocking her head slightly to the side. A rustle accompanies this movement, but does not seem to come from her. . . instead the noise bounces off of every corner of the room, joined by a strange, soundless whisper.
MasterMasterMasterkillwantpleasehungryboredpleasepleasepleaseMasterkill. . .
A shiver races up my spine, tears catching on my eyelashes. "What. . . what do you want from me?" I choke, trying to read her expression through the dimness. "Why won't you let me out? Why won't you let me out?"
An eyebrow cocks. "I never said I wouldn't let you out," the blonde admonishes, sounding slightly offended. "I was simply giving you a little reminder."
But though her lips say 'reminder,' her eyes hiss 'warning'. Again, I begin to tremble. It feels like the temperature just keeps going down. . .
"R—reminder. . . ?"
"You seemed to have forgotten that you have a job here," Rosette giggles, shifting slightly on her throne. The noiseless voices began to writhe through the blackness; restless, anxious, needy. MasterMasterMasterbelovedMasterMaster. . . "I couldn't very well let you leave without the satisfaction of knowing you'd done your duty, could I?"
I pause, sitting up slightly straighter in my seat. What—? "You mean, you actually want to. . . ? But, those other docto—!"
"I have no need to be analyzed," she snaps coldly, pleasant tone gone. "Not by the likes of THEM. . . they were pompous fools."
Were. . . ?
"No. . ." the girl continues quietly, gazing wistfully at nothing. Her sapphire pools appear rather opalesque in the nothingness. "I have a need to teach. . . and learn." A small smirk crawling onto her face, she turns her head towards my own. The intensity in her gaze is enough to frighten a murder. "Tell me, miss. . . is knowing that you're insane a sign of insanity?"
"! Huh—?" Blinking, I instinctively reach for my clipboard. It's not there. . . "I. . . uh. . . that is. . ." . . . I don't know.
She laughs at my helpless floundering. "Oh, I see. . . how undeniably interesting! Is this your first time without training wheels? Without your notes and books for backup? Can't you make a decision on your own?" A rumbling moan of a sigh works its way out of Rosette's throat, as if some unseen force was stroking her. Humor glitters in her half-lidded eyes, chin tilted skywards. "Come, my friend, don't look so scared! It only hurts at first! And the cuts and bruises you receive from your first fall are enough to warn you against stumbling again. Learn with me, miss! Help me. . . the fun has only just begun, and the night is young."
Her laughter reverberates.
Hot hands brush my own.
My fists tighten.
". . . Start from the beginning."
Our first session commences.
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"My name is Rosette Marie Christopher. I am 18 years old this January. I was born just outside of Manhattan, but was raised in Michigan. My favorite color is red."
Here she pauses, a sardonic grin quirking her pink mouth. I feel a rush of air swish past my cheek as those invisible hands race to touch their Master. ". . . I bet you don't even realize the look you're giving me now, miss," she murmurs, leisurely running her tongue over her upper lip. "The look. . . 'of course your favorite color is red, you heartless killer'. . . But I assure you, miss, that that is not the case. Red has always been my favorite. . . And, just like many people, it is misunderstood. I wonder, why is it always equated to death? Bloodshed? To me red means life. What are the two colors of Christmas? Santa's suit? The feathers we stick in our Thanksgiving hats? Valentines? Blood. . . the very stuff which keeps us alive. And yet. . ."
Rosette shakes her head, as if dismissing the stupidity of the world. "Nonetheless. My favorite color is red. I wanted to be an explorer. . . me, and my little brother."
"Brother?" I interrupt in a careful voice, one full of cautious interest. No where in her files had it mentioned relatives. . . what other secrets is she hiding? My chair tilts dangerously as I sit near its edge.
"Yes. Joshua. A sickly little thing. But goodness, he was cute."
"What happened to him?"
The blonde beams— a heartless, empty sort of beam. "He was killed at age 12."
Gasping involuntarily, I feel fingers fall against my mouth. But for once, they are my own. "Killed? By whom?"
Her expression remains unchanged. "Me."
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"Do you feed your monster?"
I jump a bit at the broken silence, confusion setting in. "Pardon? My what?"
"Monster," Rosette repeats, quite serious. "We all have one. Deep within our souls. . . always hungry, always ready. The darkness within everyone."
Still staring blankly, I hesitantly shake my head. "I don't understand."
She smiles faintly. "It's our monsters which keeps us sane. You know that, yes? You can feel that, yes? When you're angry— that twisting, searing hatred in your gut? That is your monster, craving release. And you must care for it, in your imagination or through words—and in that way, feed it. Keep it strong. In check."
My fingers itch for my pen, wanting to write this down—instead committing every word to memory. Her voice had an almost mesmerizing quality to it. . . I find myself hanging on every word. "What if one doesn't?"
"That's when we start to hurt people," she explains softly, airily. Scratches and bruises that come out of nowhere suddenly begin to blossom and grow on her naked legs and pale cheek; a droplet of blood caught by her tongue. Her expression indicates that it tastes wonderful, unperturbed by my petrified stare. "First. . . hit them. Then scratch them. . . beat them. . . kill them. When you find yourself wanting to do, or doing, those things— that's when you know that you're not keeping proper care of your monster. Your monster is escaping."
"And if your monster escapes. . . ?"
Rosette only smiles.
A jolt of understanding shoots through me. "S—so you're saying that these hands. . . this POWER. . . that you. . . ?"
". . . I didn't take care of my monster," the girl nods after a minute of listening to my stuttering, sounding rather deadpan. "And he escaped. Many, many, many times. . ."
The rushing begins again. . .
MasterMasterbelovedMasterboredhungryMasterpleasepleasewanttoplaytoeattolivetobehahahathisisfunMaster. . .
Each voice echoes off of the walls, heard not by the ears but by the soul. They all sound the same, these many entities with the arms that can touch anything their Master desires—a little boy's voice, almost like a bell; dark and playful and demanding. Fingers toy with the hem of my coat. I shy away from the sensation, squirming for all I'm worth.
"H—how many . . . ?"
Rosette casts a lazy glance to her left. . . then right. . . then chortles. "Dozens of them," she all but purrs, moving her chin as if to give some invisible force better access to her neck. Another wound appears, purple in nature, but is swallowed by the whiteness of her flesh seconds later. "Big and small. . . of all ages. But the same monster; split during my travels and trials. And more appear whenever I do something, think something wrong. . . my devils multiply as my madness grows."
Her glazed eyes suddenly focus, piercing me through the heart like a knife. ". . . I can see your monster," she murmurs distractedly, those invisible hands shooting like bullets towards my chest; pressing carefully against the valley between my breasts. Like they are trying to feel for something— or reach through my body entirely. But for some unexplainable reason. . . I feel strangely calm. Like I know what she's doing, and what she's going to say. Like I've always know. . . "It's getting angry, miss. It wants out. . . you've been neglecting him." Her gaze locks with my own. "Why do you bottle up your angers and resentment? Why not act on them, if only just a little?"
I hang my head, preparing to justify my actions (or lack thereof), before quickly shutting my mouth—turning away from her translucent fingers. "I am not the one being analyzed right now, Rosette," I remind her lightly, trying to urge the conversation back towards the girl and forget this odd swelling of feeling deep within my inner self.
She only grins.
"Are you sure?"
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So yes, those of you who asked, the hands belong to Chrono. Rather, a bunch of different sized and leveled Chronos. It's a Chrono smorgasbord! . . . too bad only Rosette can see him. T.T
Credit to the person who wrote the forward of the JTHM: Director's Cut for the 'monster inside' idea. It just fit so perfectly with this plot, I had to play with it. XD XD XD YEA FOR HIM!
Anyway, next chapter will probably be the last. Keep an eye out for it! XD Ja!