❛ what do you want? you can tell me. ❜
"Huh? Eh, probably a backstory replacement," Clear said with a shrug as he slumped over the bar counter, fully visible so that Harmony wouldn't look silly, like she was talking to empty air. It was just one of those nights in some backwoods backwater replete with filmy air choked by stale cigarette smoke, hazy light clogged with dust, and a grumpy bartender tending to equally gruff patrons. They kept to themselves, at least, but in the dimness, it wasn't hard to see why someone might be intimidated by them, though. A quick scan of their minds revealed nothing hostile: just existential exhaustion from the rat race present across the whole cosmos. As for Clear, he chose to hitch a psychic connection to a man who was blackout drunk, his mind a pleasant slurry of weightlessness and unconscious that dragged on the entity like a weighted blanket.
Not unusual for him. It was one of those nights where he couldn't help but brood on the past, thinking back on his creator. With how disastrous his being currently was, his constant ragging about how she had up and abandoned him, he always left out the part as to why. She had realized what suffering he'd be in for and got scared, turning away because of guilt--not because of disdain.
Somehow, that always made it so much more worse.
Clear sighed, turning his head so his cheek plastered to the tacky bartop. "You tired. Pretty sure this place has a shabby motel attached, or somethin'."
