"Ughh… the hell," Rue groaned.
His head throbbed painfully in rhythm with his heartbeat.
The inquisitor felt lustrously lethargic.
Fluttering his eyes open, Rue was met with a sight of blinding white metal.
Closing and opening his eyes several times, he attempted to adjust his vision to the overabundant white color of the wall.
Creeping his eyes ajar, Rue examined his surroundings.
Scouting his surroundings, he let out an involuntary sigh.
It was a cell, and he was being detained—that much was clear—since controlling his Will felt more chaotic and illogical than normal.
It was like being told to solve complex differentiations while only having a solid grasp of basic algebra.
In other words, manipulating his Will at all was completely off the table due to the forced complexity.
The thing responsible for this impediment was obviously an external restraint.
The blinding white cell was small, only a mere 48 square feet.
If Rue had to find one silver lining about the cell, it would be the lack of physical restraints forced onto his body.
Closing his eyes, Rue gave a calm smile like a wise sage content with his end, but then Rue shot his eyes open.
His pupils dilated into pinpoints, and his gums bled streams as he gnashed his teeth.
It was a familiar state of being.
The feeling of pure, eternal, unending rage had once been his norm.
His freedom was once again stolen from him.
"FUCK!"
Jumping to his feet, Rue, unable to resist the emotional burden, began to frantically thrash his fists and legs against the interior walls of the cell.
The wall stood patronisinglyly idle and firm.
His violent outburst had yielded nothing; however, Rue didn't care—he needed to vent like a child during a pity party.
He was tired—so utterly exhausted with it all.
Was he destined to be cursed by fate?
To be shackled to mistress misfortune?
Why did he have to condense that stupid Initial?!
"Accumulation of experiences, my ass!" Rue yelled, his fists connecting with the blinding white walls.
With each punch, each kick—each brutal attack—the pure white tapestry of the wall would paint in accumulative sploshes of dark, filthy crimson.
His mind registered the eruption of warm pain searing from his legs and arms; it was painful, but he ignored it.
Pain was a constant companion, and a mere hairline fracture along his knuckles and some broken legs would do little to wane his Willpower.
After an unknown amount of time, Rue stopped—his senseless barbaric attacks no longer connecting against the cold metal.
Falling onto his knees, he sighed, resting his forehead against the wall.
"How long are you going to watch me throw my tantrum?" Rue suddenly asked, shifting his head toward the adjacent wall.
Click!
A door-sized piece of the white wall shifted back, sliding out of view.
The black toe of a combat boot stepped into Rue's temporary dwelling.
"Did you have to make this mess?" Livia asked, glancing toward the bloody wall.
Rue shrugged. "I was pissed."
Giving a small nod, Livia tapped a specific section of the white wall.
The interior of the room morphed and shifted—the walls took on a wood-like look, the ambiance of the lighting shifted from a liminal fluorescent white into a warm orange, the ground cladded in a soft gray carpet, and in the center of the room appeared a metal round table with two wooden seats stationed opposite each other.
"Take a seat," the pink-haired Adapted said, making herself comfortable in her chair.
Taking the seat opposite, Rue, out of spite or recklessness, bared his gaze into the pink-haired woman's crimson eyes.
Livia kept a gentle smile.
This contrasted her normal-self.
Rue opened his mouth amidst the tension.
"What do you want me to do?"
She tilted her head, her face playing a false, surprised expression that would even make Oscar-winning actors nod in approval.
"And why do you think I want you to do anything?"
He shrugged. "It is fair in normal circumstances that people don't grant a mark to an individual after the supposed person was detained, and much less if this person is a foreigner—it just sounds like extra hassle." Rue furrowed his brow. "I also heard from a little birdie that foreigners are frowned upon here and killed without discrimination."
"So you're either a very generous person, or you have your own agenda—and I highly doubt it's the prior."
Livia's smile widened.
"Such a daring statement to make. Did Ayami tell you that?" she pressed.
Rue nodded.
"Well," she ran her hand through her hair, "I do have an agenda—and it's you," Livia mused, pointing toward Rue.
"Come again?"
"Yep, you heard me, kid—I want to make you my disciple."
Ignoring the patronizing comment, Rue stared down the pink-haired woman like she was mental.
'I must be hearing things,' He internally noted with a subtle shake of his head.
It had to be a joke?
Really, a disciple?
It wasn't even funny.
A master-student relationship was a bond that transcended mere relation—it was an ethereal trust and found irony both respective parties were able to share.
The master taught while the disciple questioned and learned.
And yet, Rue was being offered this sacred thing by a person whose name he didn't even know, much less trusted.
"What? It's not a bad deal—just think about it," she said, noticing Rue's expression. "If you accept becoming my disciple, you'll be able to evade all of the charges currently being held against you—simply, you'd be scot-free."
"Oh, I almost forgot—you'll be applying to the Institute with a letter of recommendation from yours truly." She chuckled, resting her hand on her chest and flicking her hair back.
Rue perked up in surprise, but his lip stiffened.
"If I say no, then how long would my sentence be?" he asked hesitantly.
"Forty years at the least—at most, give or take seventy, if you're lucky."
Rue let out a deep breath.
That long!?
When he thought it over, Rue only then realized the severity of his blunder.
'I should have just fucked off after tussling those kids up.'
'No, the result would have been the same nonetheless,' he sighed.
"I'll accept,"
Hearing his words of acceptance, Livia leaped up with glee.
"Bombastic!" she yelped with a toothy smile.
"But, I have a question." The inquisitor said, his expression lacking that same finesse commonly seen in someone who had their pride tarnished.
And frankly, Rue didn't care. As long as he wasn't killed, then he really didn't give a shit.
It was the same sentiment that led to his decision to enter the church.
'Well, fuck you too, Pope—I QUIT being a heresy inquisitor!'
Rue had no loyalties, no connections, nothing to weigh him down emotionally—but maybe physically.
And the Church was no different.
Rue only saw it as a place he could use for his protection; however, since he was here in Terminus rather than his home world, they had clearly failed in that regard.
"Sure, ask away." she said absentmindedly.