[ Her expression is one of wariness. She has been noticing the Hitomi malfunctions, of course, and the number of rather irate people on the network
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[ This girl is very pretty, and Yachiru is particularly interested in the eyepatch over her eye. It reminds her of Ken-chan's eyepatch and makes her wonder if maybe, just maybe, when she talks about powers, it might be something like that. Some kind of great, wonderful, tingling power that blasts away everything clear from the ground and sends weaker ones flying with the full strength of it, though Yachiru has been accustomed to Ken-chan's power for a long time, living and breathing so close to it, sleeping near it, wrapping it around her, like a comforting warm blanket. ]
Hi Patchychan!
[ She decides this is a good name, Patchychan, because the girl has an eyepatch, and it's her most distinguishing feature, after all. ]
Well . . . Chrome does not really associate that word with herself. Hers has never been a world-shattering power -- nothing of that scope. She lacks Hibari's aggression and drive and Mukuro-sama's fearless acceptance of endlessness. Power would seem to connote restless destruction. Someone to be feared
( ... )
[ Art, to Yachiru, is destructive, it is beautiful and bright and filled with the restlessness of two lives bursting against each other. Two lives, pressing, pushing, struggling, one attempting to gain dominance over the other
( ... )
[ It is not that Chrome has never engaged in battle. This would be the opposite of the truth. There have been days when she has asked herself if life amounted to anything besides fighting (sometimes in ways less tangible than piercing the jugular of a foe with prongs of her trident) -- but she is not Hibari, nor will she ever be. Battles do not exhilarate her. Safeguarding the Tenth is her role. Assisting Mukuro is her role. These are her paths. And she lives them in the manner that one pulls one's self out of bed in the morning: because it is rote. Because it is what you do
( ... )
[ Being torn apart is not something Yachiru is familiar with, but Ken-chan enjoys it. It cracks his smile apart and shows his teeth, shiny and white and gleaming, like bones bleached white, like the armor of a Hollow, of an Arrancar, or the Espada Ken-chan fought in Hueco Mundo. White, the perfect color against which to paint and color with blood. She thinks maybe, for Ken-chan, the feeling of the tearing, of being ripped apart like when claws carved into his body and made him fall down to think about how to fight him, and for a moment she wasn't sure if Ken-chan would really get up after all, she thinks -- thinks that the tearing is somehow a rending of life itself. It is living, truly living, at that very moment when pain courses so violently that you think you are going to die this time, and your opponent is strong, and worthy of causing that pain
( ... )
Only the hurt. To win is to survive. Place bread on the table. Book a cruise and enjoy the sight of the waves while pretending you are not on your way to investigate a kidnapping, a series of murders, a child prostitution ring. Some new horror. The illusions are her salvation. They restore her mind on the days when it feels as if there is nothing beautiful left in the world -- the days when it feels as if the horizon has Murder clouds over a Rape sky far above the Prostitution ocean. Because, really, there are those days. There are good days, too. When she is convinced beauty exists somewhere on the Earth, even if she must make it herself. Even if she must seek it in the eyes and the wills of her friends, who restore her hope
( ... )
[ And not so unlike Yachiru, Chrome's name was also given to her by another: Kuromu Dokuro. And she had not known her childhood by the colours of the world, but by the absence thereof. A grey monochrome universe of isolation and daydreams and pain, until that moment when Mukuro had come into her existence and Chrome had been born from Nagi.
(In their intimate moments, there are times when he will call her Nagi, still, and she will smile and accept that he remembers her beginning.
She wanted, once, to become him. And once, she would have corrected any who said she was not. But now, she corrects those who might wish to suggest she is anyone besides herself: She is Kuromu, now. Chrome. Nagi, in the solitude of their room. Nagi, on the doorstep. Nagi, in the bedroom. Chrome, to the world. And this is all she has desire of being
( ... )
Hi Patchychan!
[ She decides this is a good name, Patchychan, because the girl has an eyepatch, and it's her most distinguishing feature, after all. ]
Are you really powerful?
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[ Powerful?
Well . . . Chrome does not really associate that word with herself. Hers has never been a world-shattering power -- nothing of that scope. She lacks Hibari's aggression and drive and Mukuro-sama's fearless acceptance of endlessness. Power would seem to connote restless destruction. Someone to be feared ( ... )
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[ For Chrome, there is no victory in pain.
Only the hurt. To win is to survive. Place bread on the table. Book a cruise and enjoy the sight of the waves while pretending you are not on your way to investigate a kidnapping, a series of murders, a child prostitution ring. Some new horror. The illusions are her salvation. They restore her mind on the days when it feels as if there is nothing beautiful left in the world -- the days when it feels as if the horizon has Murder clouds over a Rape sky far above the Prostitution ocean. Because, really, there are those days. There are good days, too. When she is convinced beauty exists somewhere on the Earth, even if she must make it herself. Even if she must seek it in the eyes and the wills of her friends, who restore her hope ( ... )
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[ And not so unlike Yachiru, Chrome's name was also given to her by another: Kuromu Dokuro. And she had not known her childhood by the colours of the world, but by the absence thereof. A grey monochrome universe of isolation and daydreams and pain, until that moment when Mukuro had come into her existence and Chrome had been born from Nagi.
(In their intimate moments, there are times when he will call her Nagi, still, and she will smile and accept that he remembers her beginning.
She wanted, once, to become him. And once, she would have corrected any who said she was not. But now, she corrects those who might wish to suggest she is anyone besides herself: She is Kuromu, now. Chrome. Nagi, in the solitude of their room. Nagi, on the doorstep. Nagi, in the bedroom. Chrome, to the world. And this is all she has desire of being ( ... )
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