#diegetically

You're crying at the sight of her corpse.

/on the high tables along the windows, a clear glass of water — half empty: royce trails a finger along the rim intently, watching ripples form & collide & form again — changing the arcs of the caustic light that dances in the shadow cast by his moving hand. "oh, sure," absentmindedly, royce agrees to nothing in particular (you won’t believe me; you’ve got to see for yourself), adrift & elsewhere. then, inexplicably, royce's hand slips — his finger misapplies too much pressure, & the glass topples. like blood, water spills onto the table & onto royce's clothes. the glass, as if with a life of its own, rolls toward the edge of the table. the sound it makes as it shatters against the floor is a sparkling sound — reduced instantly into infinitesimal pieces. royce, like a scorned lover, hasn't spared it a glance. from behind the counter, the manager — garte, is it? — shouts something about paying for damages, & royce half-heartedly waves it off. with his focus lost, the nascent theory once cradled by his thoughts loses its seductive power, & his interest dissolves. a clean break. still, a faint trace of frustration lingers as he yanks out a few napkins from the dispenser on the table, swabbing at his coat. royce tosses the wet napkins aside, reaching for more to wipe off the table.  "you took care of the body? finally, it was hanging there for over a week…" a sense of relief. he glances toward makar, toward their pristine & clinical gloves. "—how did you get it down? yesterday, the detectives were having a hard time with it, a real hard time with it. heard a gunshot." he meets the other's gaze, inquisitive, evaluative. he sounds almost flippant about the man's death. "i haven't really followed the whole thing, otherwise. wasn't he one of the mercenaries hired to control the strike? i don't have a story about him. what stories about him does everyone else have?"

/royce stares into the distant horizon: the painted sky is a gorgeous shade of peach, accented with thin wisps of white clouds — yon-dale's work, no doubt. slowly, he takes a drag from his own cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers, & spares a glance toward his companion. seconds pass — smoke billows out of his parted lips in lieu of an answer. more seconds pass. royce thinks faintly of grant kendrell & the forlorn determism of their conversations, how grant has always seemed monolithic — like a stone pillar, meaninglessly prevailing against an erosion that has conquered everything else. things would change, then they would change once more — the great shadow of ouroboros looming forever overhead. "well, um, i don't know; i don't quite know." royce finally breaks his ruminative silence to proffer a non-answer, twitching his finger to shake off the excess ash of his cigarette. dunayevsky has always struck him as naive, even childish — perhaps, an unfair judgment, but royce doubts it. "i don't fear death, & nothing i accomplish — nothing i accomplish will have meaning." he sounds matter-of-fact, as if the subject of his words were not him, but some specimen of study — as if he were, instead, an objective point of view. there is no trace of sadness or even resignation in his voice: merely, indifference. "therefore, the prospect of eternal life has no significance to me — no significance at all. but — don't get me wrong," royce pauses to take another drag from his cigarette, exhaling another cloud of smoke, "i would very much like to stay alive for a healthy lifespan, preferably a lengthy one. i would very much like that. but past that, beyond that — to live forever —" he makes air quotes with one hand, "well, i'm not sure the human mind can truly picture the length of eternity, let alone handle it." his dwindling cigarette is barely anything, anymore. he toys with it between his fingers. "try to picture it, daniil, really. just try. eternity — how long is that? see, you can't. no one can."