Feb 11
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sketches done in the middle of the night.
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«Remember, kid. The world is divided into two types of people: those who are behind the wheel, and those who get run over. There is no third option. And if you even for a second doubt which seat you're in... well, consider that wheel already crushing your throat.»
Raymond "Rat" Higgs, 41
To the ordinary residents of Pinecrest he is Mr. Higgs, a local small-time businessman with shady but legal ventures. For those who dig deeper he is simply Rat. It's not a nickname. It's what he is. A walking, talking racket.
He is former successful broker from San Francisco. He understood numbers and trends better than people. Now he sees in everyone only a utility coefficient, emotional overhead, and debt obligations. His method is not crude violence, but cold balancing of accounts. "The Watch" is not torture, it's asset depreciation, a test of its resilience to moral deprivation.
He doesn't just break John. He teaches him to speak his language. He is cultivating a likeness to prove his point: all people are merely functions.
His gaze is heavy, pinning. He doesn't look he appraises, like a customs officer inspecting luggage. There is no malice or joy in his eyes. Only clarity.
His gestures are slow, economical. Adjusting his shirt, counting money, patting a cheek. Every touch is an act of establishing hierarchy.
He drives a dark burgundy Impala SS '94 (not flashy, but a status symbol of confident, understated power). He wears Hawaiian shirts as a mask of "relaxation", a parody of humanity.
His speech is quiet, even. He speaks of violence and debts like an accountant speaks of debits and credits. Phrase "It's not personal, it's business" is for him not a cliché, but a law of physics.
Ray's Tragedy
He traded his soul for a system, and the system doesn't accept returns. He would rather die than admit something remained inside. Any sincerity is bankruptcy, unprofessionalism, vulnerability. His truth is silence, wrapped in a Hawaiian shirt.
"Sometimes I look at them and think... what's it like to just exist? Without this knot in your gut. Without constantly calculating in your head: how much I owe, who owes me, what happens if... What's it like to breathe without having to account for every breath?"
John Porter, 17
His personality is a crack, revealing the wound left by a departed father. He seejs the strength, a structure upon which to build the muscles of his unsteady masculinity.
His pain is a landscape. He lives within it. It's the air he's breathed since the day his father became a silhouette in the doorway.
He wants to protect his mom. To protect, one needs resources. Rat provides resources. Thus, dependence is disguised as virtue. He betrays not his mother, but his childish understanding of protection, without even noticing the substitution.
His gaze is a defiance at first, with a plea visible behind it. In the end it's an absolute, reflective void in his BMW's roof.
His body is lean, wiry, ready for a strike but not for sustained pressure. It's constantly held with slight tension, like a spring.
His speech is rare, fragmented. He speaks either too loud or almost a whisper. Between these is a silence, where all his pain resides.
John's Tragedy
He fell not because he was weak. He fell because he wanted too desperately to be strong according to someone else's, paternal template. He mistook Rat's system for a textbook on masculinity, and humiliation for an exam. His end is not a defeat, but a brutal, final clarity: the strength he sought was merely another face of the same violence he was running from.
"Your pain has an... interesting texture. More granular than I expected."
Herbert Hinton, 18
The shining golden boy on duty. His perfection is not a mask, it's a laboratory specimen. He doesn't hide the void, he curates it.
He doesn't "not feel", he just doesn't recognize. Emotions for him are raw physiological data: John's elevated heart rate, dilated pupils, micro-fissures in his voice. He sees pain the way a doctor sees symptoms on a cardiogram, as something interesting, beautiful, informative.
His smile is not warm, not evil. It's absent. Facial muscles perform a social function. Its unnaturalness should be jarring.
His glaze is unfocused, scanning. He doesn't look into eyes, but through them, as through a microscope, observing the capillaries in the retina.
His posture is perfect, efficient. Like a surgeon who economizes movement.
He weighs words like reagents, does not use emotional metaphors. "You look sad" = "Your pupils are dilated 15% beyond the norm, vocal cords are strained."
Herbert's tragedy (which he doesn't perceive as tragedy)
He is a walking abyss in human form. He sincerely believes his experiment is the highest form of attention one living being can pay to another.
Her is not just a villain. He is a natural phenomenon. A natural disaster in the form of a perfect football captain's smile. And that is his most chilling feature.
He doesn't want to be the best. He must be flawless, because it's the only available coordinate system in the social chaos. A football follows a predictable trajectory. People do not. John, with his unpredictable, loud agony, is a disturbance of the peace and an object of supreme interest.
Now Herbert want to understand the limit. How far can one go before a living person turns into a pure, unadorned symptom? At what point does the "self" dissolve into pain?
Pinecrest, a small Oregon town at the end of the century.
This is a story about three men and three kinds of emptiness. Each tries to fill his void with another person. At the center is a boy who believes these broken pieces can be assembled into strength.
This is how it falls apart.
Act I is available.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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