#iorbartach

ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴄᴏᴜʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ ꜰᴜᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴄɪᴛʏ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀꜱꜱ-ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴀᴄʜɪɴᴇ ᴏʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴘᴀ (ᴏʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴇ, ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ).

By this world's standards, they were very high-maintenance when it came to food. And though they very much doubted that consuming a bagful of fluorescent yellow "chips" would kill them, Djahima was still in the dark when it came to certain aspects of their own nature. If any of the additives could have an effect on them like certain drugs do, then the risk simply wasn't worth it. Indeed, living long enough to see the quality of food decrease exponentially over the decades was punishment enough.

When Miguel found them, they were sitting at a picnic table in the park chowing down on...something. It was almost unrecognizable now, whatever it was. Djahima turned to him, wiping up what little remained of the red stew with a lump of starchy dough the size of a tennis ball, just as they swallowed the whole thing without any issue. Naturally, their face was a mess.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ "ꜱᴘɪᴅᴇʀ-ᴍᴀɴ" ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀᴘɪᴛᴀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴏʀᴡᴇʟʟɪᴀɴ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʀᴀɢɪᴄᴀʟʟʏ ꜱᴛᴀʏᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜱ ᴅᴊᴀʜɪᴍᴀ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ɪɴ ɪᴛ. They almost put their faith in this reality-breaking catastrophe that Miguel was obsessed with, that perhaps if they stared hard enough at Nueva York, the ugliest parts of it might spasm and vanish. But as cynical as they felt when their eyes scanned the horizon of geometrical asymmetry, they knew that life existed even here, whole and hopeful.

How much worse has it gotten in the slums, the ghettos? In what ways does this world dehumanize them?

Their thoughts ceased. Despite their chaotic first meeting, the man they came to know as "Miguel O'Hara" was no evil person. Bad? Maybe so. In his quest to find perfect equilibrium for however many infinite realms there were, his utilitarianism was blind to the individual's plight. To say that Djahima was acquainted with this ideal would be a hilarious understatement. To achieve happiness for many, there would be great suffering for the few. And they were the few.

"You are not the first." Their mood was grave, their voice's pitch deeper than their usual intonation. They seemed to have traded their whimsical nature for a more somber one. Or maybe they just couldn't give enough of a fuck to keep up the carefree attitude. Miguel knew (in the simplest of terms) what their true nature was. But he didn't know of its longevity.