Mere Inkstains

BENJIRO SAGA HAS BEEN FOUND GUILTY. COMMENCING EXECUTION.

With the final votes tallied and the result obvious Benjiro stands with, perhaps, a surprisingly calm expression. It’s more content than he’s looked throughout the whole trial, in fact. “This is gonna be one shitty send-off…” he mumbles. That’s all the time he has to speak before that chain rattles in and snatches him away by the throat just as it’d done to Tyler earlier.

He’s calm even when he’s dragged to a small traditional room, tatami mats decking the floor, the walls decorated with scrolls. In front of him is a small desk and another scroll, this time blank. The scrolls on the wall read specific instructions: ‘CHALLENGE: NAME, 1000 TIMES’

Almost as if this is an RPG or a cartoon as soon as he’s read that the room begins to flood with ink. With his legs chained to the floor and cushion he’s on, his eyebrows furrow and he’s forced to act. There’s a brush on the table in front of him, like a sword destined to be used by a hero. He isn’t sure how this is going to go, but he takes it and dips in the ink around him. Then, it’s time to write. It’s nothing he hasn’t done before. Writing your name is one of the first things many people perfect. It is like a signature, after all. With a few simple strokes, done expertly, he jots down his name. But the ink seems to pour faster after that. A bit of fear creeps in as he writes it again. And again. And again. But each time he writes his name, the ink pours in faster and faster. Why does it seem to go faster every time he writes it? Is that scroll just outright lying? What kind of dumbass joke is that? This becomes monumentally more difficult with the ink pouring in as fast at is. But he’s Super High School Level for areason and there’s no way he’s going out without a fight. Over and over he writes his name until he really does sketch it 1000 times. And like that, the ink stops filling up the room, having gotten up to his shoulders.

Benjiro’s not nearly gullible enough to believe that’s the end of it though, as his eyes search the room for the catch. But he can’t see anything out of place. And without a single warning, that’s when it happens.

It just all goes up in flames. His eyes widen as he tries to figure out what the hell is happening and the screen goes dark. An explosion sounds and when the screen light back up there’s wreckage everywhere… black ink mixed with vibrant bloodstains. It’s pretty obvious what happened even without the nice black screen before. Benjiro cannot be seen as the camera pans around but part of his sleeve is visible, tattered. Right next to it is his scroll of a 1000… wait… no, that’s 1001… it’s just that the last name is different.

Benjiro Nonomiya.

Oh no they hadn’t, this had to be a cruel joke, she wouldn’t believe it –someone had taken all the fucking orange juice.

Kozue glared into the lacking lounge cabinet with an expression of absolutely loathing, gritting her teeth so hard that she heard the grinding sound clearly in her head. First she’d had to deal with everyone’s utter fucking meltdowns regarding such a stupid motive and now the very thing she was craving had been taken by someone. Life just wasn’t fair, and she was the unlucky victim of fate. Well, she was gonna make fate pay.

When someone entered the room, he seemed so absolutely fixated on what he was doing that he didn’t even notice Kozue crouching partially out of sight behind the bar where she’d been rifling for the juice of choice. Upon first reaction the natural thing to do would be simply raise, walk out, and pretend this asshole didn’t even exist – but then Kozue Shizuka saw just what he was painting with. Her fucking orange juice.

Of course it would be this douche.

The anger was quick, uncontrollable, and absolutely blinding; before Kozue knew what she was doing, she strode across the lounge and came to rest standing directly on top of Benjiro’s art work with no regard to if she ruined it. She glared him in the eyes. She grinded her foot in. “Fucking adorable. Were you making a little fingerpainting for your mama to hang up on the fridge, sweetie? It was really super pretty, just like you would be if you didn’t look so much like a bridge troll, and it was such a damn shame someone had to come along and ruin it. Woops, Guess that’s what happens when you go around grabbing people and being a general ass. Karma sure is something, isn’t it?”

True rage was not something you put into words easily. The words just never seem to come at the right time, one supposes. Instead, your head blanks and you think of... nothing. Nothing but all the stereotypical things one associates with rage; for they are real. Red. Fire. And a sound, a kind of static that resonates in your brain. Almost preventing you from hearing anything. Oh but he hears her words. It’s hard; after she stands on his work his hearing gets a little strange, it spikes and muffles, like a kind of haze settling in over him. But he hears her words; not all of them but enough of them. And rather than answer any of them he instead, with great care, closes his open fingers into clenched balls. One breath.

That’s all he needs.

With his fists now prepared, in one fluid motion he charges for Kozue. And he intends to give her no mercy. ‘Don’t hit a girl’? Which idiot made that up to justify their soft heart? This girl was perfectly capable of defending herself. And as far as he was concerned she had struck first. Intentionally. And she would pay for that.

There was no need to give Kozue a long speech on why he disagreed or how pathetic he found her. Instead he sent his fist straight into her gut. She’ll probably fight back and hell, it may even hurt him a little. But in a fight he’s pretty confident who the victor will be.

He’d already decided on a plan of action, decisions made quickly as they ought to be in a fast game of checkers. That guy in the photos would be fine. The boardgamer had already decided it. He was good at strategy too, wasn’t he? He wasn’t the vice president of the Boardgame Club for nothing.

So it was without too much worry for him that Cornelius burst once more into the lounge, dramatically posing, holding it for a good five seconds before opening his eyes to see the scene. There were papers everywhere! And then… Oh dear. The artist was that guy who’d gotten dangerously close to roughing him up. With the threat of death actually a real thing, it was even worse of an idea to mess with him. But surely if he was calm, and he was here displaying his works in the middle of a place so easily visited, he wouldn’t mind an overseer.

It was with this justification that he landed in a chair close to Benjiro, arm resting on the edge, and peered over to see the impressive works in progress. Had he made all those paints himself?! His voice, surprisingly, carried no condescending tone when he spoke up.

“Why, we meet again, Saga-dono! Impressive works of art, if I do say so myself.”

It was easy to lose yourself when you got into that other world, that imaginative part of yourself. In fact, the boardgamer’s presence went completely undetected by Benjiro until he spoke up which, for a split second had him alarmed. He’d pictured himself drawing back home. The second he glanced round to see the speaker he mentally recoiled a bit, reminding himself where he was. Tch, what a damn disappointment.

“White camellias. White poppies, yellow poppies and... marigold. Waiting. Rejoice, success and grief. That’s the arrangement. Waiting through grief, rejoicing and then gaining success... perhaps.”

He takes a deep sigh, swiping across the paper arrangement with three fingers, drawing a stem before pausing to focus more on his guest. He didn’t think this could would have an eye for art but well, maybe he was wrong. So long as he had no intention of being annoying or overly babble-y he had no problem with him remaining.

“Still, that sort of meaning holds no weight here.”

There isn’t really any sadness or regret in his tone. It’s a fact after all so it’s spoken like a fact; there doesn’t have to be any more hidden depth to it than that.

“You’ve got more of an eye than I thought.” that’s as close to a compliment as he feels like paying right now. It feels like a good time to stop what he’s doing for now so he flicks some of the custom paints off his hands onto the edges of unused paper. “... Was there somethin’ you were after or what?”

Knock knock knock!!!  That would be the extent of things if it were anyone else knocking on Benjiro Saga’s door at what could only be determined to be very early in the morning on whatever schedule most of their classmates had been operating under down here. But, sadly for the poor Calligrapher, it was Matabei Ohira doing the knocking, so it went much more like knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock knock- and so on, into infinity and approaching the “pissing someone off” axis rapidly.

What a better way to greet a near stranger, after all! Enthused as ever,the Hype Man stood outside room 11 with a slightly folded piece of paper in his hands, bouncing up and down right on his heels impatiently and nervously. Maybe Benjiro  wasn’t even IN here, but that thought was only just now starting to occur to him. Where else was he going to find the dude? He seemed like a reserved sort of guy, so long mornings spent in the bedroom seemed like a pretty good call.

So did screaming at this boy’s door first thing in the morning, too.

“HEY HEY, SAGA-SAMAAAA, ARE YOU IN THERE? OPEN UP, I NEED YOUR HELP!!!! IT’S ME, OHIRA!” 

He’d been awake, thankfully, and merely meditating. It seemed his roommate was still asleep too, another boon. So why was it that such a tolerable morning had gotten him so riled up? Who even was this ‘Ohira’? And why did he need his help? Benjiro was strict in regards to help; it wasn’t something he gave to everyone. After all if people knew you could help them they wouldn’t stop bothering you to help them with every little thing. That’s how most people were; dependent and desperate, lazy and without discipline.

At first Benjiro had simply intended to ignore the knocking. Surely this person, this Ohira, would get bored if they simply stalled them out. But the infernal noise wouldn’t stop and try as he might to continue meditation that racket kept bringing him back to reality. He felt his blood boil, pure scorn already heating up his blood as he got to his feet and stared at the door as if perhaps, he stared at it long enough it would fall off its hinges and crush that annoying visitor underneath it. If this horrible knocking kept up any longer his room mate would be awakened; if this was a quick thing perhaps his tranquility could still somehow be saved. So with many reservations and a scowl already on his face, the calligrapher strode to the door and opened it just enough to see the knocker. He wore horrible garish colours.

“I don’t think this is a game…” she answers calmly, a bit more seriously. “I just thought falling like that was a little funny.” she explains with a smile, freeing herself from the velvety prison of a thousand plush bodies.

“I thought since nobody’s going to leave for a while, we should make it more comfy!” she explains more merrily, completely serious. The thought of someone killing just to get out of here was absurd to her! … Even if every time she thought about how much water was around them she started to feel sick to her stomach… But that’s what all the curtains were for!

“Oh… And we should all get to be friends, too.” she insists, before adding with a giggle, “Even if you are kinda grumpy…”

Well she certainly was upfront. Grumpy, was it? Not like he could argue that; even if he could, he had no desire to. It was true enough, he supposed. Though that being seen as a bad or negative thing he did take issue with. What was wrong with being a ‘grump’ as people so liked to say? So he didn’t smile needlessly at things or talk his head off like some sort of airheaded gobbling turkey. Reactions should be sincere and thus rare; why was that so hard for people to understand? Regardless, it was no skin off his nose. If it affected others that was their problem.

“You can stop there.” his words are spoken more quickly than usual; well, for him. Perhaps he’s in a rush to correct her there. “I have no intention of joining hands and playing nice. Some paper thin fake friendship will solve nothing - will do nothing. I want no part of it.”

Part of him thought to end the conversation then and there but he had some perhaps, peculiar ideas on manners. While it was perfectly fine to snap at someone and be, as they so often said, a ‘ grump’, it wasn’t acceptable to storm off during someone’s introduction. Those were important; introductions, titles and names. And despite his lack of respect for people, the idea of an introduction certainly deserved his respect and time.

“... Saga. Benjiro Saga. I do calligraphy. That’s my talent.”

Rather than the looming threat of mutual killing looming over all of their heads, what had concerned the digger-girl most at this moment was… The windows, apparently! She was… Less than fond of bodies of water, particularly as large as the ocean, but if there had to be a killing to leave this place… Well, of course that meant they just wouldn’t be leaving for a while, right? So she’d taken it on herself to go about the place and cover every porthole she could reach with a cloth or curtain of some sort.

She’d left the viewing platform be, of course. Beyond the logistics of finding a cloth large enough to cover the thing, there’d be no point to it if she did. It could just be a place she’d avoid.

“What exactly about this do you find amusing?” he raises his eyebrows... not that she’d probably see that. “Your pratfall or this juvenile game-show-esque hostage situation with a murderous host?”

It didn’t seem like this was being taken very seriously by a good many people he spoke with. Maybe he was, as others would say, too cranky for his own good. So serious, someone who acted like an old man but... that was better than living so blindly, running into holes.

“Now why would someone go through the trouble of creating this place where it is without the necessary precautions? If you believe all this is a waste of money, sir, I’ll have to say its destruction and the repercussions will only cost its creator even more.” Ha ha, he knows he’s fantastic - there’s no need to remind him.

Then he asks for his identity. Oh, so he’s the condescending type? His eye twitches ever so slightly. Gotta keep up that smile. Muscly and tall as he is, temptation to match his sarcasm is rising. Especially now that he’s not in immediate physical contact…

“Why, of course I’m of note, but perhaps not to everyone. Fame can only reach so far, don’t you know?” As evidenced by the fact that he has absolutely no idea what this guy’s name is. “Anyway, you may call me Cornelius. I’ve been called the ‘scourge of the board’ quite a few times.“ He pronounces that ‘L’ perfectly as if it’s nothing at all.

“Because people are fucking idiots who overstep their boundaries due to their arrogance. It has and will always end poorly. Men and their needs to be the biggest and most important... waste of money, you say? That’s nothing new. They may as well fling their savings into a fire; it makes no difference.”

It’s not even a subject he’s passionate about, not something to lament or rant about but it is, to him, a fact. If there’s one thing you can count on when it comes to people it’s mistakes.

When he says ‘fame can only reach so far’ he folds his arms and tilts his head, cynicism clouding his head. While the words are true he wonders what the credentials of this guy are for him to be so. Assured. A boardgamer, apparently. He’d... dabbled in mahjong certainly but he was no gamer. He disliked the idea of it even being called a game actually; it was more of a battle. And what’s with that name anyway? Cornelius? That’d be hell to pronounce. Good thing he doesn’t care and he’ll forget it soon enough. It sounds foreign though. That would match his open possibly abrasive oh so cheery attitude, though.

The open road, traded for whatever the hell this was. You couldn’t really blame him for being pissed off. Especially so when he felt the tug on his coat’s high collar, and caught a glimpse of brown hair from the periphery of his vision. Immediately he wrenched himself free of the grip and spun on the heel of his boots to face the intruder.

“Step off,” he growled instinctively puffing himself up a little. He was taller than this guy, but otherwise matched, apparently. “Got nothin’ for ya, so fuck off ‘n stop grabbin’ onto my shit like some kinda monkey.”

Regardless of how he feels about the guy though one thing’s for sure; he’s not someone to be trifled with. He’s tall and well-built, no doubt a guy like this knows what he’s doing in a fight. Well, if it’s a fight he wants the calligrapher’s more than happy to oblige. Though what he’d prefer the most are some goddamn answers.

“What a joke...” the words seem distant and are so vague in nature it’s hard to know what he’s talking about. He releases the fabric trapped previously in his hand without much care nor kindness. The ‘what a joke’ is honestly towards the situation.

“... Such petty slights...” he spits out with contempt. “Indicative of a petty person. What a fucking joke, threats like that. If you’re clueless ‘bout all this, you’re not much use. Guess that concludes our business here, doesn’t it.”

Hozumi gravitates toward the bar, which he soon finds is stocked, and quite well in fact, but not with alcohol… not that he was expecting it to be, or anything. And, quite obviously, if it had been alcohol, he wouldn’t have partaken in it, but given the apparent ages of the people milling about, his deduction that the bar would likely serve something other than alcohol was warranted and ended up being correct. Not bad for having just woken up after god knows how long.

The prosecutor isn’t particularly fond of overly sweet things, so he ends up going after a citrus-flavored soda with as much caffeine as possible. Hey, if he can’t have coffee right now, then this is the next best thing. The bottle is, thankfully, easy enough to open, and there are numerous glasses about the bar, so finding one and filling it is simple enough.

With the bottle replaced back among its brethren, he begins drinking it almost greedily, forcing himself to stop at about halfway. Gotta save at least some, he chastises himself gently. For now, he returns to mingle with the people on the floor, planning his next course of action. There are numerous doors surrounding the area, and some of those could even lead to more doors… Perhaps he’ll just–

His train of thought is interrupted by a large, strong hand abruptly grabbing his scarf and pulling him closer, apparently so they could see eye to eye, maybe. Hozumi grits his teeth, one hand going partly to his scarf, partly to the hand grasping it, and the other trying not to make a mess of the glass and the soda. “There’s… no need… for violence…” he murmurs unhappily, trying and finding himself unable to shift.

Benjiro hasn’t even touched him (well, not really) and he already looks like he’s ouit like a light. Though there’s that glass in his hand so he’s at least awake enough to be carrying that. What sort of person when waking up in some weirdass place gets a drink as his first move? It’s suspicious. And even if it’s no suspicious it’s really poorly thought out. His words are an echo of Benjiro’s own memories; it all seems to add up. Waking up here, starting Hope’s Peak... remembering nothing. Still, despite sleepyhead’s dozey tone there’s some steel in his voice. Something that asks to be taken seriously or perhaps not to be trifled with. With a tone like that he’s honestly asking for a fight but he doesn’t have any good information there’s no point and there’s more people to corner. Perhaps not the best strategy but he’s already in a foul mood and it worsens every time he realizes someone has nothing in the way of new information for him.

“Tch...” it’s his automatic reaction to the lack of anything new and as such he lets go of the bundled up snow-man of a kid (seriously, all those layers looked like a hassle) and sighs. His release is a bit hasty and as such, a bit rough. Hopefully that soda didn’t spill everywhere. Spilling some idiot’s blood across the floor was one thing but there was no need to make things untidy if you didn’t have to. Unless it was ink. That was different though. It had to be messy to be personal; to be just so. At least, well, that’s how it was for him.

“Say for one second I believe you... what the fuck are you doing getting a soda if you just woke up like this? What if it’s poisoned? You’re askin’ for trouble like that, aren’t you? Either that or you know more to this then you’re letting on so spill the beans. What’s your deal here? Who’re you even supposed to be, huh?”

“No, I suppose that’s not unreasonable.” But what was unreasonable was his attitude, which she was sure he already knew of. While she was sure he was a skilled calligrapher, she couldn’t see how any sensible school would let in such a boy. 

What she says next is... certainly a nice thought in theory. Indeed, that’s what he’s been striving for himself. Someone to take responsibility. Well, no, it’s not just nice in theory it’s going to be nice in practice when he finds out who’s responsible for this. Regardless if that means ruining that particular person’s day or not. In fact, hopefully it does ruin their day. The bastard.

“We, you say. As in, both of us? Wouldn’t have pictured that as your thing, gotta say. It’s certainly not mine. People get in the way and for all I know you’re lyin’ about how much you know in the first place.”

The more he sticks around in one place though the more irritated he gets. He has to go out and do something; finally get some answers, one way or the other. And it gets tiring to talk for too long.

That was, really, the only logical explanation by now. She hated to admit it but nothing else was making sense and the more she looked for answers the more questions arose. Kozue’s first choice of action had been to breach each and every room—minus those locked and barred to her—to quickly determine that while spacious, this odd excuse for a people aquarium was small, sealed, and all together completely impractical to exist at all. Finally all options had been exhausted and she was back in the main room with the gaggle of equally confused civilians, each with just as much of a clue as her. A sigh, a crack of her knuckles; it was her duty to take charge of such aimless sheep in the face of danger.

She was trained never to let her guard down. Normally, she never would. It was mostly an impressive nod to the confusing surroundings that she was so shaken she took her eyes off the prize at all, but before she even had a chance to react someone’s hands were grubbing up her collar and someone’s mouth was barking that disgusting, just-woke-up morning breath directly into her face.

Instinctively her hands went up—not so much in surrender but in preparation, open palms curled slightly should fists and punching suddenly become needed, the rest of her body tensing half in fight and half in a sharp salute response to the voice of authority. Face void of emotion, eyes front and center and almost looking directly through the person now in front of her, her response was an automated rasp that she spoke before she could even come to heads or tails of what was going on.

“Big words from a whelp. A senseless whelp who can’t even enunciate proper fucking sentences; makes sense all you can do is talk shit. Doesn’t it bug you to be so damn incoherent?”

She was small but she had a good build; it was best not to underestimate this one too much. Benjiro may’ve been a good fighter and someone with a hair-trigger temper but thankfully he was also someone who approached things from a clear analytical perspective. He shakes his head and stares at his hand considering his next action carefully. While he has no desire to stepdown a stance like this isn’t the best. If she does intend to get physical, which by her words and demeanor seems likely, it’ll leave him at a disadvantage. Judo can work to his benefit here but without both his hands it isn’t worth shit. After some careful consideration, he does in fact, let her go, but his stance by no means loosens; in fact, if anything, he seems more prepared than ever for a fight, hands balled into fists, his head craning to make sure he’s got a good angle and perspective. This way he can be defensive AND offensive. Good. That’s more comfortable. And as such, it gives him an opportunity to pipe back up, his tone filled with scorn.

“You spoke a whole lot of shit but you didn’t answer anything. Do you lack comprehension or are you just fucking with me? Because that ain’t a smart idea.”

He couldn’t confirm that but if they were going all across Japan for recruits it’d only make sense. Besides, they were already experiencing some big differences in people with him and Yoko alone. Even in just appearance alone they had core differences.

Speaking of... she said a shironuri... what was that? Some city thing... he’d definitely heard of it, but he hadn’t seen one in person. A street fashion, maybe? Something like that decora or lolita stuff? Ugh. Nothing he put any research or thought into in all honesty.

“It’s a figure of speech, Shironuri-san.” he taps at this temple. “I don’t intend to murder anyone if that’s causing you distress. I would hate to cause undue anxiety.” his words don’t seem to be all that sincere but it’s not exactly untrue. He has no real desire to cause drama for no reason. Violent and ruthless, he is both of these things but he has a reason for everything. He’s not one of those uneducated ruffians who live off bullying. It’s just that people so rarely understand it.

“Not helpful, you say? N…no, it really isn’t.”

Yeah, that intensity in his eyes is not to be trifled with. It’s best to get him to focus his anger towards the person who brought them all here… if they’re not, in fact, here for a bizarre welcoming party. When the calligrapher’s grip loosens, Cornelius seems to visibly relax. The grin he gives Benjiro, likewise, looks less tense as he somewhat smooths out his collar.

“Heh… I’ll have to disagree with your opinion on this place, sir! Why, I would be appreciating this grandiose area much more if I actually knew our reasons to be here, and our actual location. …Besides 'within the ocean’. Surely you sea that already, eh?”

And yet here he is. Dealing with it. Goddamn it.

“Yeah, it’s gonna be real fucking grandiose when the ceiling cracks and we all drown. You’re fantastic, kid, just fantastic.” he would slowly clap to indicate the point if he were the type to. Even if he was the type this guy would probably enjoy it in some sort of weird ironic way.

If she tried to pay attention to her surroundings, she might make eye contact with people– and if she did everything in her mind would overload and she would be even more of a ticking time bomb. A bomb waiting to explode in anxiety and nerves. She closed her eyes, taking in all of the ‘advice’ Benjiro had given her and looked up to not meet his eyes– but rather his forehead instead. This was much easier, let’s just pretend he didn’t have an intense gaze on her.

“C..calligrapher.” She tried not to mutter, but this came out like a whisper. She moved her hand up to cover her mouth as she cleared her throat. “Saga-kun..” She made a mental note to remember who he was and shifted her hand back in the safe keeping’s of her other arm.

“Me..?” She cleared her throat again, her voice still wasn’t coming out. Perhaps she was a little scared he would harshly scold her again, but she couldn’t exactly help it. “I’m S..suki Ishibashi, Gunslinger.” Suki went over to where she kept her gun and patted her leg– to find the holster empty. She tried not to look alarmed as she did so, but she looked uncomfortable already so it just looked like she realized she left the oven on.  

The repeating of his words was irksome but it was slightly less irksome than her potentially murmuring and umming and awing some more. He was hoping not to punch someone within seconds of being in this strange place but certain things, habits, they really did grate on his every single nerve. Hopefully as soon as she was done parroting she’d cut out that whispering for good. Such an annoying thing, mumbling.

“Who else?” his impatience was barely veiled. So from what he’d gained from her aside from the nervous splutters was her name and the same... old story. The one he had. The one everyone seemed to have. That at least gave him a starting place, some sort of consensus that made it easier to place events. Of course, if someone was lying (and he sincerely hoped for their health’s sake they weren’t) that would be a different thing entirely. He wasn’t some super person savant anyway, like he’d be able to tell. If someone was lying he was sure to find out at some point. And they’d surely pay for their withholding. He’d been vaguely listening but something, not what he expected, took his attention. And as such, she had his full attention though it was undoubtedly nothing she wanted.

“Gunslinger... you say? You handle... those things?” he takes a second to process this before his expression become stormy. Those things... here in this country. There was nothing good that came from guns, horrible things as they were. They had LAWS to prevent them for even being here in the first place. “Despicable. The academy’s standards are worse than I thought. Perhaps I should’ve reconsidered this entirely.” he, once again, speaks more to himself than to her. And why bother speaking to her in this case? She has proven to be without honour given her talent and she’s a nervous wreck in person anyway. It’s difficult to hear people who can barely enunciate as it is.

“... It seems you have the same information as everyone else... not useful but at least we know it is, indeed, the general consensus... unless someone is holding out. That wouldn’t be prudent of them.”

China Doll? “That isn’t my name, I’ll have you know. Though I don’t suppose you’re interested in knowing a person before shaking what you want out of them.” She huffed. Honestly, what was with this boy? Did he think intimidation would get him what he wanted? She couldn’t believe the nerve he had.

“You’re catching on.”

That was all she was getting out of him. That was all that needed to be said really. If at the very least she understood he wasn’t interested in the minor details, in the names and small talk, in what you had for breakfast. All pointless. And all time consuming.

“... Good assumption. Haven’t just ‘heard’ of it. I was going there. So I guess we got that in common. I do calligraphy. That’s why I came here. This ain’t a part of the deal. At least, it better not be or I ain’t gonna be stayin’ here for very long.”