Octavo finds himself at the pier, leaning on the fence and looking out across the water. Did anything lie on the other side of the ocean, or was this place and its peripherals all there was? He'd brought his guitar, but he doesn't feel like busking. He'd need to get another job soon. Supposedly there was a way for people to give him money with their devices, but he isn't sure how.
One way or another he'd manage, but... it was going so well...
He should have known it wouldn't last. Nothing ever did.
Someone's joined him, sitting on the bench beside. Octavo looks over. A man with... cat ears?
"Excuse me, do you..." No, he can't even say it without getting choked up. Octavo looks away again, taking a shaky breath.
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↳ his old ID tag, from his residency at SWARMC. the plastic is mangled and partially melted, his photo burnt away, though his name remains intact. oftentimes he tucks it into his pocket, hiding it away, but he can't bring himself to get rid of it as the only evidence of his existence as human that remains.
[ ⛓️ ]. what does guilt feel like to them?
↳ heavy; a perpetual discomfort sitting in his stomach or playing on his mind over and over. it's an infection, and the more he thinks about it, the more he lets it in, and the more it hurts. at that stage, even if the discomfort subsides and the wound heals, the infection is already inside. it leaves a permanent and ugly scar, and he's forced to reckon with it every day.
[ 🕯️ ]. what memory do they replay when they’re alone?
↳ flashes of his experimentation, though it isn't by choice that he relives them. he was partially conscious for some of it, and experienced some of the pain. it's fragmented; glimpses of his own innards as they're cut away, deemed useless for their ends and stored elsewhere, the faces of those who presided over his various surgeries, looking down at an open ribcage, exposing a still beating heart and contracting lungs. if he's left to his own thoughts for long enough, the memories seep back in whether he likes it or not.
[ 🧩 ]. what’s a truth about themselves they refuse to admit ?
↳ that he has a strong desire for violence and to hurt others. he often fantasizes about punishing those who have wronged him, brutally, torturously slow, like plucking the limbs off spiders. he wants to see them suffer, and beg for their lives, just as he did. he wants them to know what's like to be ignored, at the mercy of someone who isn't interested in preserving their morality or humanity anymore, who has nothing left to appeal to.
what is a detective without a cig? he needs it for enrichment. trust.
@machinah
♠ It has been a whole 24 hours - maybe even more - since his last cigarette. The quite unpleasant surprise as he reached for his coat pocket only to find a box of cigarette shaped candies had put him on edge, feeling that someone had played a cruel prank on him. Luckily he wasn’t too dependent on them since Anubis was able to manifest himself at all times now beside him, but still, it had become a compulsive habit he couldn’t live without anymore.
“This is a good opportunity to let go of them,” the jackal had said at that moment. Despite the necessity for it, he had never agreed with the detective picking up that habit. Not the least because the smell of wet dog and nicotine usually drove people away.
And since the city was still unfamiliar to him, he had walked by different stores in hope to pick up a package, but with little success; also because he didn’t quite know how to use the phone he was given to pay for a pack.
The longer his cold-turkey streak went on, the more agitated he grew, frowning, pacing, fidgeting with his lighter nervously. “Maybe you can pick up a new habit to compensate for it?” Anubis spoke as he was sitting down to scratch himself behind his ear.
“I need them, Anubis. One more minute and I will- hey!”
Noir turned away from his companion, spotting a person from across the street and without looking left or right before crossing the road ran over to them. “Hey, pal, you over there! You don’t happen to have a smoke on ya by any chance?”
Churches are his favorite places to visit—not only for the peace, but the pious believers he meets along the way. It is far more likely to encounter the devout here and sometimes catch their prayers. If Aurelius is in the right mood, he helps those that he can hear.
It is a rare thing, however, especially when they're praying to other gods in the first place.
More often, he finds a place to sit in the pews and talk to God himself. It is perhaps the closest he'll get to Heaven in this place. Surprisingly, today he happens upon a familiar silhouette sitting in one of the benches. Aurelius's feelings about Dar are mixed—the last time they'd talked, he'd been a plush toy—and before that, fighting in the skies. Perhaps the memories from those times are still strong, because the angel hardly stops to ascertain whether he's gotten the right cat before he steps up to rest a hand on the other's shoulder.
"I'm surprised you came of your own accord."
"Is this a sign you're turning over a new leaf? I would be happy to facilitate the..."
And the angel trails off once he gets a good look at the stranger's face, expression turning into one of bewilderment.
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