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Crimm (though he has, for quite some time now, by all of his many, many fans in the world of fine art and beauty, allowed the label of ‘Explosive Artiste’ to cling to him like a cheap sticker on the back of a discount bin romance novel, a lesser title that cannot properly convey the height of his genius the same way an ant cannot comprehend the circuit board it has found itself on, seeing a landscape of strange angles and humming monoliths instead of the greater whole. So, do others see his devotion to the explosive as madness and stain his title with the maddening icchor of sarcasm) perches himself on the edge of the second-rate hard light monitor (model: NEONVEIL, a model so aged it can only display colors in fonts of green and even then struggles not to spazz every two seconds into an unreadable blur before the screen returns to it’s usual boring hud)
The boorish interface, however, has its use, namely registering the commands he is putting in to send the entire energy creating facility into overdrive. It is only a matter of bypassing a few security protocols and turning off just the right things to make sure that most of the devices will malfunction, through which one of those mistakes, an EN pack will be harshly damaged and detonate, causing to it damage another EN pack which also detonates thus creating a chain of explosions that will envelop the facility before it collapses into itself with one grand finale. (To nobody’s loss, as the Auto-fab plant seems abandoned and so sadly, only he as the witness)
Before he can lament such a thing, the sound of a door opening prompts him to turn his back and witness two new strangers. Some boy with lithe white armor and a round orb buzzing around him. (Red and white are the clear highlights; what a dull combination. He very much prefers brighter colors, the kind that sparkle and blind even those who try to look away, but not everyone can be like him)
Still, could it be? His eyes shimmer with an excitement so fierce, they would glow in the dark if only they could. “Ahh,” he begins, his voice a fine dagger dipped in silk, and his body posed as if in front of a camera, dazzling smile included. “Might you be here to appreciate my fine arts?”
A boorish threat confirms the opposite, tone delivered with as much energy as the post-boy who rings your bell only once before throwing your package onto the front yard, or the intern who stands in place looking at his phone, having forgotten the objective he was entrusted it. This lame banality, for lack of a better term, deserves a word of its own for how much it conveys in so, so, little.
He should explode this guy. In fact, he will explode the guy. Make him go boom, likely the most exciting this avatar of entropy has ever been in their whole life. After the proper introductions.
Let nobody say Crimm is rude. He says his lines even as the other just stares at him with that blank look that betrays no emotion. But at least he isn’t interrupted; he gives him that much. So many boring folk think themselves clever for ruining a dramatic moment that it makes him want to-
Well, explode. And explode he will.
Now.
Right now.
He will explode the guy.
With his explosion septima. (Proper name being Detonation, but enough wasting time)
With a dexterous twirl, he lets his scissors dance between his fingers. Then pulls out a quill, “Contra-”
He doesn’t see him close the distance, doesn’t feel the hard grip on his wrist, the quill being plucked from his hands, and it wasn’t until he smashed back first into the ground that his eyes widened, his expression the human equivalent of a loading screen before updating terrible news. A firearm is pressed against his neck as his transformation trinket is stolen, the same face now looking down.
“Well, you certainly dropped,” a smarmy woman’s voice comments. Not from the boy’s mouth, if it had then he’d be even more surprised, but from the drone buzzing beside him. “Wouldn’t call it artistic, though.” She continues, likely thinking herself oh so hilarious. Crimm grits his teeth.
“That’s unfair!” he protests, moving to rise before remembering the gun. Still, his face morphs red with anger and embarrassment, “If it wasn’t for that sneak attack, I’d be humiliating you!”
“Nah, we’d still win.” The girl replies, her tone so confidently dismissive it would have shattered the confidence of a lesser man, “Not that we need to prove it, or want to, anyway, you lost.”
“We’ll be taking our share of EN packs,” the boy continues before he can reply, “Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime, and maybe you’ll get to go home, safe and sound.”
“And with my ego bruised?” Crimm notes resentfully, “No, thank you, now fight me like a man!”
“No,” a firm refusal, but Crimm, full of determination (And perhaps a blow to the back of the head against a concrete floor) is determined to get what he wants. And so he moves to phase 2.
“Chicken!” name-calling, “What’s wrong? Are you scared? Scared of fighting a man to his full ability? I guess that’s how you came here, being all sneaky, like a rat! A chicken rat. Hah!”
This time, the reply is a red boot to the face, and everything turns to black.
“…………………..im…”
“Cr-……………..im…..”
“Crimm…..”
Crimm opened his eyes, the white ceiling and stench of antiseptics alongside the sound of machinery signaling that he was inside a hospital. Then looked beside his bed, “Blade…?”
Like a stoic pillar, the swordsman made note of his presence with the obvious, “You’re awake.”
“Anyone would be, if you keep saying their name.” Which is absolutely not the truth, nor the polite thing to say, but Crimm doesn’t really feel polite. Humiliated and robbed of his favorite pastime.
“Your report.” Another to-the-point statement, lovingly endowed with a demand as well.
What’s there to say? “Some ruffians interrupted my creative session, that’s it.”
“We’ve noticed a lack of spike from your contract during that time,” one of Blade’s hands wanders to his sheath, suspicion etched within his next words, “Explain yourself.”
He hesitates, “They stole it…”
“What?”
“They stole it from me before I could use it, okay?!” he sighs, putting down one palm against his own forehead. Dignity be damned, he wants to sink within his cover and not be seen for days.
Blade is undaunted, his stare the same as Crimm looks back at them. There's a sinking feeling to his gaze, as if the azure of his eyes was a vast expanse of seas, so easy to get stuck in. Everything is stuck inside, it seems, his focus unyielding. His hand on his blade tightened for a moment.
Before he lets go and steps away, back now the only thing facing Crimm as he says some final words. “The next time you meet iX, only one of you will come out of the encounter alive.”
Crimm, perhaps wisely, doesn’t say anything.
For a long moment, there is quiet. Then Blade finally leaves. And still, Crimm is just...lying there. Body sore, face and nose especially, and he doesn’t look comfortable. If anything, he looks resigned, then after some time, annoyed. Some more, and his anger reaches its peak, “Damn, you iX!”
“I’ll make you suffer twice the shame I’ve had! I’ll take you down with the greatest explosion!”
Somewhere in the distance, the person with said name sneezes and continues his peaceful day.