His lordship Chaos invites you to: strut. Rated PG She may not be the world's solution But she's a world class revolution -New Radicals, "Technicolor lover" -strut- (because the world depends on it) The first things you notice about this woman are her eyes. I've seen a lot of eyes in my day. Hers are a blue you don't ordinarily see. You catch even the briefest of glimpses of them, and you're at a loss for adjectives. They're blue like the ocean on a perfect summer's day, blue like the celestial shadows found in heaven itself. One look from her and you're hooked, captivated, enthralled, and you pray that out of every possible thing in the world, she's watching only you. The next thing you notice is her hair. And she's got a lot of it: golden blonde, cascading down her back in waves upon waves of silken perfection. It moves of its own will when she walks, billowing and twirling around her, like God himself was playing the artist and sculpting the wind to make her even more beautiful. But the real heart-stopper is her voice. It's an angel's voice, filled with innocence and vengeance all at once. It's a voice that makes you stop and take notice, a voice you never want to stop listening to. She could go places with that voice, and it's plain to see in those brilliant blue eyes of hers that she plans on going everywhere possible. Take all these things and slide them together into the most supple, athletic body you could ever want to run your hands along, and you find yourself before a goddess in heels. This goddess is standing not twenty feet in front of me, and I have her full attention. There's just one problem: she wants me destroyed. Dead. In itty bitty pieces. Quite possibly all at once. And I must confess my own regard for her personal welfare is at a rather negligible level. I am, after all, a youma. And, "I am Sailor Venus!" she adds with an absoluteness to her voice, like she's daring me to mistake her for someone else. That would prove rather difficult after an entrance like hers. It's not every day a youma gets to see up a young lady's skirt before she turns into a pillar of light, and then walks out of it in the uniform of a Sailor Soldier. In any case, she's still forcing me to step away from my intended victim. Ergo, she's not following the plan my employers have outlined, and we can't have any of that. There's an apocalypse going on, and everyone has to lay down arms and submit. My employers even sent out a memo about it. She probably missed it. That happens a lot. In fact, I wouldn't be entirely surprised if the memos had failed to get sent out at all. My employers were certainly talking about the idea at the last meeting, but whether they followed through with it...well, that's not my department. I find it's much safer to obey the orders I'm given when I'm given them, and not meddle with the management. Management is best left to meddling with management. They're the intuitive, creative sort, my employers. They have ideas: bold and brilliant and utterly grotesque ideas; ideas to bend reality and decimate entire worlds. The only problem is they rarely think everything through. That, and they're also vile, petty, egotistic and should never be trusted. Aside from that, they're fairly decent people. My employers have this tendency to assume everything will work out along the way, or believe that someone else is taking care of the details. This usually ends in someone's grandiose plan falling through, unravelling at the seams and meeting with utter failure. Oh, and death. My employers are very big on death here. Heads tend to roll in their company. Usually across the conference table, out the door and, if the one holding the sword had enough swing behind them, all the way down to the water cooler. I can't exactly complain. My head hasn't rolled, I have a decent cubicle next to the window and the benefits package they offer is top rate. But I digress. It's not my working conditions that have brought me to this point. It's her. The young lady who calls herself Sailor Venus is posing. I think it's meant to look menacing, but I can't help but think she's trying to show off a little cleavage with the way she's bending at the waist. I can't entirely object. She's a much more tantalizing prey than the quivering woman laying prone on the ground next to me. My assignment can wait. If a goddess like her wants me to dance, it would be rude of me to refuse. She's still looking at me with those brilliant blue eyes. I've seen a lot of eyes in my day, most of them wide in horror and brimming with tears. Perhaps that's why hers are so fascinating. I look at her and I see no fear, just a fierce resolve and playful confidence. Maybe even a little bit of revulsion mixed in too. I can't blame her. This oversized sledgehammer grafted onto my left hand is rather ridiculous. I had requested something a little more lethal. Something ferocious and brutal and hopefully pointy. I'd even filled out the paperwork in triplicate and personally submitted it the Application Offices. Nothing so far. Maybe the forms are lost. Maybe they're trapped in some stack of bureaucratic limbo. I don't like it, but it's all I've got, this hand, so I might as well work with it. I may not be able to run this girl through with my hammerhand. But I can definitely crush her pretty little skull into oblivion. Those eyes of hers...those beautiful eyes. They make me want to bask in her sight for the rest of my infernal life. Perhaps I'll crush her chest instead and keep her eyes for myself. She doesn't quiver or shrink back as I stretch my limbs, the muscles of my body cracking and popping. I smile just enough to let her see my fangs. It's a courtship dance we share, and it's over in a second as I fall upon her. I swing and she dodges. There's another glimpse up her skirt as she dives over my hammerhand. She has tanlines. Not much time to savour the sight; my hammerhand has too much inertia to stop on a whim, and without her body there to absorb the impact, I'm thrown offside. My fist smashes into a brick building. It leaves behind an enormous hole in the wall. I hope they're insured. Not that it'll matter much, once we've taken over and their entire race has been enslaved. Maybe the shop owners will be spared. I'm not sure what sort of conceptual plans my employers have for this planet; it's entirely possible they'll need the fine purveyors of...and I glance inside the display window...lingerie shops to keep things going. My attention snaps back to the blonde spectacle now behind me. She's shouting something rather peculiar and in English. I have no idea what she's saying. She could be ordering off a menu and I wouldn't realize it. Admittedly it's the inherent problem of creating such a localized apocalypse. My employers, generous fiends that they are, did not consider it relevant to imbue me with multi-linguistic capabilities. Oh, I know the random vulgarity, but little else. I wonder if she knows just what she's saying. I wonder long enough to behold a golden whip, its body forged with interlocking, heart-shaped chains, erupting from her outstretched hand. Apparently she does. There's enough instinct in me to force my head to jerk to the side. Milady's chain hits the brick next to me, pushes through with just as much ferocity as my own strike; it's anchored into the wall. As I eye the golden line trailing back to her, I ask, now what? She's being ridiculous. Really, she is. Milady Venus smiles at me, readjusts her stance and yanks hard on her chain. The chain pulls back--along with half the brick façade. Everything smashes into the back of my skull and shoulders. The blow is jarring, causing me to blink in unexpected nausea. Ow. My vision clears just in time to see the heel of her boot smashing into my cheek. I'm spun, toppled, left reeling and desperately grasping for equilibrium. And Milady Venus isn't letting up. There's another kick coming. This time I can sense it. A single blow from my hammerhand, and she's sent pinwheeling into an iron fence. Her body tumbles to the ground, leaving me to marvel at the dent her body's left behind in the fence. This sledgehammer implement may not be as fun as 'pointy', but it seems to have its uses. Blood's trickling down her head and her lips. I think I've dislocated one of her shoulders. She fumbles about as I approach, almost blindly looking up at me. There's no fear in her expression. She's actually trying salvage enough strength to continue the fight. She has such pretty eyes. Oh well. There's a twitter of satisfaction in my stomach in seeing the cold, stark truth on her face as my hammerhand is raised over her head. She's realizing she might die. And she will. And I'll enjoy it. A flash of red screams through the air and cuts across my arm. I can't help but recoil, my gaze sweeping for the source of this new and unwelcome interruption. All my assignment read was 'procure life energy of ideal victim.' The file even had the woman's name, address and a photo attached. Someone like Milady Venus jumping in and interfering, I can forgive, but this is simply getting ridiculous. Can't an entry-level youma just drain the life of a human and be left in peace? I turn my head and gaze up at the face of my enemy. There's an escapee from a masquerade ball standing atop the fence. Now who invited him? Down on the sidewalk there's a red rose sticking out from the cement. He has a matching one in his hands, held like it's a throwing knife. He actually had the audacity throw a flower at me, the bastard. He speaks to me in petty altruisms and fortune cookie wisdoms. Quite frankly, he's annoying. He's also making me step away from my goddess, my hammerhand twitching for blood. Better to make fast work of him, leave nothing more than a stain on sidewalk that causes the people of this world to shiver as they step over what's left of him. It's a mistake I don't realize until I'm aware that Milady Venus is on her feet again. Her voice shouts something indistinct, and in my confusion I attempt to turn back around. There's a jolting shock that runs through my entire body, and the world pitches sideways, and... ...and suddenly I'm staring down at my chest and the hole her Love-Me Chain has put through it. There's a moment where I cannot help but marvel at how the blood streaming from my wound is orange in colour, despite my overall bluish hue. I wonder how long it will take for the pain to set in. Half a minute passes and I still don't feel a thing; I was probably designed that way. I glance over my shoulder; it's disconcerting to see the rest of her Love-Me Chain stretched out behind me, its end wrapped around a tree on the other side of the street. Orange gore drips from its links. Strange...I didn't think my insides were that colour. My legs buckle and I drop to my knees. My arms won't work. A bitter taste is at the back of my throat. Milady Venus draws closer, limping but ready to finish the job. Ready to finish me off. My employers won't like this development in the slightest, but I don't mind. Her eyes will be the last thing I ever see, and that alone is worth the cost of my existence. I gaze upon her form one more time as she towers over me, a blonde silhouette with the sun shining down behind her. As she presses her fingertips against my forehead and summons her attack, I have to smile. How she struts. Magnificent.... Sailormoon and all its related characters are the property and copyright of Naoko Takeuchi. No credit can be given to this work without first giving credit to her. This narrative will probably sound cooler if you imagine hearing Clive Owen's voice the next time you read it. Thanks goes out to Dejana and www.dotmoon.net for giving this story a place to belong. Email Chaos at: hislordshipchaos@hotmail.com --April 25, 2008.