The Bellators

3:10:6

 Darkest of the color spectrum, pitch black, the colorless of the void, the hollowness of the abyss. The neverending fall, the landless world, the coreless planet with a bottomless sea. The color that does not reflect, that does not shimmer, not when it itself. As itself it is nothing, and thus nothing is itself. When observed in isolation, it is isolation, when it is contained it is the containment.

Yet when it is observed from further beyond its borders, it becomes a component of a greater painting; for it is defined when its borders are, the borders defined by where the black ends and the oceanic azure begins. The introduction of a different color transforms the darkness into its own, for the distinction between itself and the blue provides it an identity. That said, the azure surface itself isn't precisely the most saturated or vibrant, instead it's rather jaded and dim, not particularly lifeless but not youthful either.

While the actual appearance does not exude the sense of liveliness, the azure disk that has the black hole in the center is mobile at least within the white expanse that it sits on, a white perfectly oppositional to the darkness in the center, and the blue the mediator. Itself also colorless in isolation, both the black and the white would be in a way colorless even paired, thus it is the blue in the center that provides life to all three. Yet it is the white expanse that provides the perception of movement of the blue disk, which jitters like jelly, shaking almost shivering, for while it is definitely not that of a corpse it is steadied to a certain extent. It is disciplined, confined to one tight position although given little room to move, to examine.

For beyond the white sclera bordering the pale white skin, the sclera housing the azure iris which houses the black pupil, beyond of the furfuraceous hide just barely a shade away from pure white, just barely divergent from the white of the sclera, is the face of the man who marches forward, his truly white distinguished locks of hair swaying behind him.

He moves forward with silent steps, only the sound of the leather of his jacket wrinkling being the audible indicator of his presence, the leather grayed and aged like its wearer, wrinkled and beaten and yet still held together with tight bonds. The silver blends into the gray which blends into the black, although they are just various enough to draw a distinction to the keen eye much like said eye to the skin. The black hood sits behind the head, right against the white skin, connected to the gray jacket.

Behind the marcher are three others following his pace, although their footsteps are audible albeit softened with careful strides, for they move at a steady pace, not particularly crawling but not racing either. Their steps are suppressed enough to not be heard from across the floor, although they are by no means silent.

One of those marching behind is the woman in the black blazer and white tank top, the blend of a businesswoman and an engineer, of the mind and body, that is a mind trained and a body built. She follows close to the side of the leader, her green eyes sharp as her amber bangs rest over her head but parted from her eyes.

Another is the woman in the white hoodie that reaches down her legs, the carefree casualness amplified by the length of her pink hair not restrained or cut but let fully out. Although with an appearance so carefree she carries herself with the most unease, her head turning sporadically to examine her surroundings with her samely pink eyes without the same discipline as the leader, instead a loose cannon trying to fix its aim.

Lastly is the man in the brown overcoat that sits over his black jumpsuit stained with purple, the only to wield a physical weapon that being the strangely designed handgun with a makeshift aesthetic of exposed wires, which he keeps by his hip ready to raise at any moment's notice as an experienced adventurer. His yellow eyes are sharp but eager, knowing the dangers that lie ahead but furthermore inviting them.