((The tardis has no autopilot. It is a living machine, in tune with the very space time continuum, possessed of a sentience beyond mortal encompassing so complex even the Time Lords failed to reverse engineer it. As an incredible Whovian, I must give you fair warning. If you screw this up, there are no analogies which could aptly portray the Hell I shall visit upon the defiler of my beloved franchise.
Also, no time travel. It's a standard rule I have, in order to avoid corrupt logic, paradoxes and massive doses of Bullshit. It's hard enough keeping track of HCL's storyline without an even MORE convoluting factor. It's up to you to decide WHY the Tardis can't travel through time, but I'm not doing any time travel, because the few times I've tried it, it has screwed everything over. There's a reason it's only used in Dr. Who to enter/exit a scene.))
To Mia, all the talking was rather pointless. Mumbo jumbo muttered by other people, or perhaps the figments of her own imagination. The difference being that the one could be talked with, and the other could be stabbed to death. Slowly. With a butterknife. Their words simply formed a background static for her own thoughts, as she gazed down at the damage dealt to the vampire's soul. It was certainly a clear blast, dealt to a soul that seemed to have been particularly vulnerable for some reason. Quite clearly, this person didn't have the first clue how Soular Combat worked. Of course, even if he had, Mia doubted it would have saved him, had the attack been repeated. The blow was focused, of a level comparable to even her father. A finely honed technique. The parrallels shone clear, from the power source to the damage, but there were multiple clear differences. Namely, that the seed of insanity had not been placed by the blow.
Not to say there wasn't one. Quite clearly, she could practically feel a shard of agony, a denial of truth that had left him vulnerable to an encroaching insanity. Truly, it was a piece of art, a painting drawn with on the canvas of sanity, with the bright colors of fear, anxiety, and denial.
However, was it just her, or was this soul familiar somehow?
Again and again, her hand moved up, and struck. The Black Blood moved through his veins, filling his body, creating a large series of conductors for her own power. The links were forged,a dn yet as she did this work, she didn't pay attention to it. That was probably a bad thing. It was a good thing she had done this as often as she had, for an operation this delicate could easily have ended in death. However, even as she sliced into the soul, she got a sense of deja vu. Was it because this was a vampire? Hundreds of vampires had crossed her tables, their immortality perfect for testing. However, in all her years, there had only been one, really. One vampire who had stuck in her memory, whom's spirit haunted her to this day, for his rivalry with her father.
No, shut up. Not true. Not really. Honestly, it was because Tsukune had been the only being to attempt to save Mia. Sure, many had tried to remove her insanity. Fools and preachers, good only for the blood that ran in their veins, and the screams on the edge of their mind as it cracked open. However, there were few other than her father who had even attempted to understand her.
That was mostly the reason she'd kept his spleen in a jar. Mostly. It was also pretty, and the cells made for great research.
What was she thinking about again? Oh yes, vampires. And stabbing. In a healing way. Checking, she corrected some of her actions. She didn't want to end up accidentally removing his personality. However, this would be quite interesting indeed. The pieces were set, the game had begun, and she was excited to play. It was a beutiful day for mass murder.
But wasn't every day, really?