It's not about you, Silco. I could care less if it did.
[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
[ Despite being so spooked in the hallway, Silco only stared at him in that odd way he did, silent for a long moment, his two-toned gaze evaluating. Like he was reading the situation, or trying to read something out of him.
He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
[sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you]
[But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
[ That's what it took, though, wasn't it? It wasn't kindness, camaraderie, or even community building that did it. Nothing but that base violence, a shock to the system violent enough that there would be no coming back. Change did not happen slowly, or gradually. He knew that better than anyone.
He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
Of course you haven't. That wouldn't be like you if you did.
[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
I would. But only when I have succeeded. If you die before anything has been accomplished...
[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
[ Verg, you literally can't say stuff like that to him. what the heck. ]
[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
[See, this is the pitfall. Silco sees this, and understands. Explicitly, implicitly.]
[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
[ It's rhetorical. He shifted on his bed, leaned forward. His hands clasped before him, resting his elbows on his long, skinny legs. He looked smaller like that, but he didn't lack for intensity, even like this. Even small, almost turning in on himself. ]
No matter what the price?
[ He understands, in some way. Vergilius says he feels guilt, and perhaps he does. Does that make it bearable? The sacrifice needed? Perhaps it does. Perhaps without it his shoulders would cave from the weight. Perhaps he hasn't had everything truly ripped out from him fully yet.
Maybe he never would. Maybe Silco would try, to see the monster inside. Does it weaken him, this guilt? Does it stay his hand? (Silco, it should be noted, lacks the self-reflection to think that this would also keep him alive.) ]
We called it the base violence necessary for change. Without the fire, you cannot build something from the ashes. Without the wreckage, you cannot find growth in the rubble.
[He knows. That's why that voice had told him as much. That his "paradise" would ask for more blood than he had ever spilled in his entire life. Could he be strong enough for such a path? He was ready for it. Until a young woman came to him, holding a brilliant red gem...]
[He was close. Too close. And it terrifies him, perhaps, deep down, that he's capable of such a thing. But it would need to be done. If his children could not be saved....]
[Then that would be that.]
[Silco understood that, too.]
I know, Silco. I told you as much, before. In that maze.
[ Vergilius likes to take the wind out of his sails when it comes to his monologues. At least Jinx listens do them. And does the 'hand talking' thing but w/e ]
I know.
[ His eyes shift to the rest of the room, and then back to him. That felt longer ago than he would care to admit. When he'd... hm. Been so bold as to hold his hand, talking about ending the world. The possibility of such destruction still fresh in his mind, a nascent possibility that withered and died on the vine. ]
Do you think you will find it? The end of all of your fighting?
[ Was he tired? Silco refused to think of himself as tired, or worn. Would Vergilius? ]
This was where they differed, he supposed. When push came to shove, Silco knew what he would choose. When push came to shove, when he had to make a choice...
He hadn't cared about Zaun, in Kenos. It had been nothing when compared to his daughter. He would never have fought to bring it back without her.
Were his goals in alignment? He wondered... ]
What would you do... if your flow led you to an intersection? The paradise you want to build, or... them?
[As automatic as anything. Not even any hesitation.]
I did reach that crossroads. I was ready to move forward, but...
[His gaze dips to his own feet, welled with sorrow.]
She appeared, barely the same person she had been before because of the experiments she had been put through. And in her hands, she held up a brilliant red gem. Both of them, changed forever, and....my heart moved. It was like a lighthouse...a single moment of hope. And I have followed it for the chance they may return to me again.
[ The answer doesn't surprise him, but he doesn't know what to make of it.
It's the same answer he would give, of course. He knew that now, from the world before, from the times he had been asked, time and time again: if you cared so much about your city, why let it be destroyed now? It had been because there wasn't a choice at all.
But then, did that make Vergilius as much a monster as he? Or did it make Silco more like him? Or was there no comparison in the end? They were just men who had wanted to save something precious, and had already learned that if there was a choice to be had, they would choose the same? ]
I hope I never have to make that choice again.
[ He will. We know he will. It'll damn him, but he'll still make it. ]
He did not ask for sympathy, or relief from his guilt β in the same way that Silco did not expect anyone to understand what it was that he did. Who he did it for. He did not need people to understand him.
But it didn't feel... wrong, to know that were he to make that choice, there was a mirror somewhere that would do the same. That there was someone else that would let the lot of it burn, were it needed. That everyone else β everyone β fell short.
He reached up, his fingers curled around his hand, resting on top of it. ]
No, they can't, can they?
[ Monsters, perhaps. Guilty monsters, vengeful monsters, but monsters. They would always become that which they needed to, wouldn't they? ]
They've already tried to take everything else, but this, at least, they cannot.
[He chose this path. He solidified himself into it. He was but a colossus, trudging along to the inevitable end. All for them.]
[And if anyone got in his way...]
[Well.]
[Silco would feel the same way. What a mirror he has. The man's hand rests on his, and he feels the light weight of it, the warmth, sink in for a moment.]
[A moment, and his other hand moves to shift around the back of the man's neck to pull him in close, a semblance of an embrace. Even monsters deserve something like this, perhaps.]
[ Wasn't it funny, that there was someone else who understood and knew what it was to be in such a predicament? Who had already fully, and honestly committed? To know that there was nothing in this world, in any world, that was more important? That fighting, truly fighting, was the only way to make the world for them? Oh, he didn't doubt that Vergilius was a monster β just as he was.
He wondered what had made the man this way, of course. He knew his own story, his own path. That he'd let that weak man he'd once been float to the bottom of the River Pilt, to settle with the rest of the bodies of their fallen comrades. Just another one at the bottom of the river.
But he still felt something β had not embraced his monstrosity just yet, had he? It was there, and it seemed to leak out of the seams of him, when he was focused and clear. Then later, did it crash down? Was this his guiding star, when the weight of it became too much?
It's something like an embrace, between them. Pulled close, it is such a rarity. It isn't comfort, not really. There is still that part in the back of his head, that whispers little promises, threats, reminders. This is the way of danger; but there is no Jinx to protect here, she will be safe in the end. There is no world to end, nobody to betray him for the good of anyone else. No soul to steal and shatter and ruin every little sacrifice he'd already plunged into his own personal furnace to flare the fires of destrudction. They are just monsters, with no aim or purpose but to participate long enough to see their worlds returned, so they can dismantle them.
Monsters were always dangerous, but perhaps... perhaps to one another they are more mirror than monster, in the end. ]
And damn them if they try, hm?
[ It is muffled, the way his head is pressed against him. He wonders if this is supposed to be for him β or for Vergilius? Or does it even matter, in the end? ]
I would enjoy watching you show them precisely the misstep they have made, if they were to try to take it from you.
[ Silco was a violent, cruel man, but he worked through proxies. Purchased and hired help and loyalty. He thinks Vergilius would cut them down with the violent, angry swings of that sword of his. It would be little more than they deserved. ]
[This embrace solves nothing. It doesn't ease the soul, doesn't quell worries. It won't solve either of their situations. It won't raise the dead. It won't reverse all their bad decisions. In the moment, perhaps its meaningless.]
[But he does it, because perhaps it may do nothing. But perhaps it stands as small reminder, a little flag in the hill of their corpses.]
[It says "I'm here. You're here. We both exist. Out there, there's someone like you. Perhaps you should hold onto that."]
[Silco speaks into his chest with that little remark - and Vergilius can't help but let out an amused little noise, his fingers curling a little around the back of his head.]
You would enjoy that? My, my. That eager to see how I fight, are you? You almost sound like the many fans all the Colors have at home. Perhaps I should get you some merch for the fun of it.
[ It's odd. Knowing that there is someone else out there, that would be like this. That would understand exactly what a harsh, cruel world requires to make change, what it is to take that circumstance, and bend it and force it into place. With violence, subjugation, drugs, or contracts, it didn't matter. What mattered was the goal, that change β but was there anyone else who could understand what it was to give up on it, would turn it aside or walk away and let it rot in its own misery, if it meant...
How odd. To know that there is someone else out there like him. Monsters circling one another and finding... what? Solace? It isn't comfort.
Understanding, perhaps. They'd promised it, between blood and bites, in that darkened hallway half a world away. Was that not what this was? Understanding? Was it β or could it β be more than that? ]
Fans? No, a grouchy old man like you has fans?
[ His thumbnail scraped against one of the scars on his hand, like he was trying to split him open. Even in this semblance of comfort, there were still the sharp edges, awkward and uncomfortable. ]
I just enjoy watching a professional work, is that so wrong?
[It does seem funny, being outside of it, but the attention is too much, aggravating, and far more than he deserves for being Best Killer of All Time One of Many Number Ones.]
[That's just how the City is. Murder and death are so part of its tapestry that in order to even cut down on it, one has to take an axe to it to begin with. Ironic, really. Silco would understand. That's the point, isn't it? Understanding. They whispered that, body to body, blood in each other's mouths.]
[The simple gentleness of hand in hand seems so far away now, and yet so, so close.]
I'm practically like a bonafide celebrity to some. I don't want to even get into the forum discussions...
[The nail tickles - he knows its a reminder that this isn't something soft, but he somehow doesn't mind it, either way. Maybe he's too used to things like this. His very being was molded on it. Maybe that's why it couldn't work with Malkuth, even as aware as they were of their City. He wasn't made for something sweet.]
Would you say that to any other professional, I wonder? Or just little old me?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[He says, both chiding and said out of a little exhaustion. This man does want to pull him apart. He has to keep reminding himself of that, lest he only follow his own emotions to feel like they're on the same level.]
[This man turned him into a vampire. He has to pinch himself with that fact time and time again.]
...I can't give you some nice neat answer. And even if I could, I wouldn't give you the satisfaction.
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He does want to pull him apart. That hasn't changed. If anything, knowing more just makes him more curious, more driven to get his bony fingers beneath his skin and tug him open. Like he's looking to crack him open to find the meat inside to pull it out and reshape him.
All he had to do was let him.]
So? Don't give me the neat answer. If I were interested in tidy stories, would I tell you mine, raw wound as it is?
[ Devoid of context though it was, but still, he pushed, not swayed by being brushed off. Sorry, Vergilius, he has the scent of you now.]
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[
sometimes the specifics of your backstory are still obscure sorry silco the story is cucking you][But Silco's insistence brushes over him roughly, and his lip pulls back. A mark of aggrievance. He will resist him, no matter what. He has to.]
[This man can't control him, shouldn't control him, even though...he fails more often than not.]
All I will say is that I made a promise to an old friend a long time ago, when these eyes weren't red. A promise to make a paradise. Perhaps that's the reason. I won't share any more to sate your appetite. But to answer your question directly...I don't know when this guilt started.
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[ It's not really a laugh. It's that same bitter little thing, seeing that way their two pieces fit together, two stories that were both so different, and yet time and time again they kept finding places where they matched up. Synced.
Itβs what keeps drawing him in, to find those odd spaces where two different puzzles could be linked together, if they compared the way they would line up. Like a story that matched up just enough would make it all that much easier to peel understanding out of him.]
Promises like that cut as much as they build, don't they? [ Again, that unblinking gaze meets his. So his eyes weren't always that color?
What a curious thing. What a curious man he was. ]
And yet. Paradise, a new nation, it doesn't matter what it is, does it? There is always something that seems to get in the way. No matter what we promise.
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[Its like fighting against the tide. Sink or swim. And even swimming can take you too far.]
[To achieve the paradise he wanted, he would have to be the biggest monster of them all.]
[He meets his gaze, something a little harder in them now.]
...What did you promise, Silco?
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He met his eyes right back, that old, unblinking stare β that pit of an eye looks like pooling toxins in dark water. ]
Freedom, a nation of our own. Maybe not paradise, but... [ A small shrug of one shoulder. ] As close as a bunch of Trenchers could get.
[ It would have been enough. Even just that. ]
I still haven't given up on it.
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[Because as much as he knows Silco, the man is determined to a fault. A creature of skin and bones ready to bite the throats of anyone who stood in his way. Only great tragedy could create a thing like that. A man like that.]
[His eye is inhuman. Vergilius doesn't say his own eyes are even more so, literally.]
...Would you die for your dream?
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[ He's not wrong, at least.
He doesn't look away at the question itself, but they look his face over, darting as if he's looking for a spot of weakness, or maybe just a way in which he falters, even slightly. He doesn't find it, so he meets his eyes again. ]
If I thought it necessary, of course. [ He didn't think it would be. ] Wouldn't you?
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[A pause. The red moves downwards, but there's a bite of anger to it. No, he would rage. He would do so until he could confirm that paradise, as horrible as it may be.]
Then what would be the point?
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[ He was fighting too, but more than that, he understood. A fight like this required a monster, a beast willing to fight tooth claw and nail to make it there. No, there were no easy victories to be found, or compromises to be made. If it could be achieved, it would be paid for in blood. If blood was needed to flood the streets, power the engines, or even drown those that refused to make it happen?
Then blood it would take. A twitch of his lips. He respects him for that. ]
There wouldn't be one.
Give up everything for nothing? It's a poor deal, isn't it? You don't seem the type to make poor ones.
No, it would be an insult.
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[Silco can be a mirror sometimes, and it scares him, how well the reflection fits. The love for a child, the willingness to commit atrocity after atrocity without end.]
[He sighs, and it sounds like it belongs to someone who has lived through a thousand lifetimes. In a sense, maybe he has.]
So you see. You have to keep...following the flow. To its bitter end. Without rest. Without...obstacle. No matter whose death unfolds before me...I have resolved to walk down this path.
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[ It's rhetorical. He shifted on his bed, leaned forward. His hands clasped before him, resting his elbows on his long, skinny legs. He looked smaller like that, but he didn't lack for intensity, even like this. Even small, almost turning in on himself. ]
No matter what the price?
[ He understands, in some way. Vergilius says he feels guilt, and perhaps he does. Does that make it bearable? The sacrifice needed? Perhaps it does. Perhaps without it his shoulders would cave from the weight. Perhaps he hasn't had everything truly ripped out from him fully yet.
Maybe he never would. Maybe Silco would try, to see the monster inside. Does it weaken him, this guilt? Does it stay his hand? (Silco, it should be noted, lacks the self-reflection to think that this would also keep him alive.) ]
We called it the base violence necessary for change. Without the fire, you cannot build something from the ashes. Without the wreckage, you cannot find growth in the rubble.
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[He knows. That's why that voice had told him as much. That his "paradise" would ask for more blood than he had ever spilled in his entire life. Could he be strong enough for such a path? He was ready for it. Until a young woman came to him, holding a brilliant red gem...]
[He was close. Too close. And it terrifies him, perhaps, deep down, that he's capable of such a thing. But it would need to be done. If his children could not be saved....]
[Then that would be that.]
[Silco understood that, too.]
I know, Silco. I told you as much, before. In that maze.
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I know.
[ His eyes shift to the rest of the room, and then back to him. That felt longer ago than he would care to admit. When he'd... hm. Been so bold as to hold his hand, talking about ending the world. The possibility of such destruction still fresh in his mind, a nascent possibility that withered and died on the vine. ]
Do you think you will find it? The end of all of your fighting?
[ Was he tired? Silco refused to think of himself as tired, or worn. Would Vergilius? ]
Is it nearly in your hands, yet?
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[He was tired, but....it was more of a weariness of the City.]
[Tired about his goal? The effort he would need to get there? No.]
[Not a chance.]
I'm not close, but...as we descend into the Inferno...I hope that flow of mine will lead me true.
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This was where they differed, he supposed. When push came to shove, Silco knew what he would choose. When push came to shove, when he had to make a choice...
He hadn't cared about Zaun, in Kenos. It had been nothing when compared to his daughter. He would never have fought to bring it back without her.
Were his goals in alignment? He wondered... ]
What would you do... if your flow led you to an intersection? The paradise you want to build, or... them?
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[As automatic as anything. Not even any hesitation.]
I did reach that crossroads. I was ready to move forward, but...
[His gaze dips to his own feet, welled with sorrow.]
She appeared, barely the same person she had been before because of the experiments she had been put through. And in her hands, she held up a brilliant red gem. Both of them, changed forever, and....my heart moved. It was like a lighthouse...a single moment of hope. And I have followed it for the chance they may return to me again.
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It's the same answer he would give, of course. He knew that now, from the world before, from the times he had been asked, time and time again: if you cared so much about your city, why let it be destroyed now? It had been because there wasn't a choice at all.
But then, did that make Vergilius as much a monster as he? Or did it make Silco more like him? Or was there no comparison in the end? They were just men who had wanted to save something precious, and had already learned that if there was a choice to be had, they would choose the same? ]
I hope I never have to make that choice again.
[ He will. We know he will. It'll damn him, but he'll still make it. ]
I cannot imagine doing anything but the same.
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[He finally dislodges from his place on the wall to drift over to the man who sits on his bed, all bones and skin, weathered and scarred.]
[And reaches forward, his hand curling over the other's shoulder.]
So we move down our road through hell. [A pause, weighted.] Whatever comes...we know what we will choose. And no one can take that from us.
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He did not ask for sympathy, or relief from his guilt β in the same way that Silco did not expect anyone to understand what it was that he did. Who he did it for. He did not need people to understand him.
But it didn't feel... wrong, to know that were he to make that choice, there was a mirror somewhere that would do the same. That there was someone else that would let the lot of it burn, were it needed. That everyone else β everyone β fell short.
He reached up, his fingers curled around his hand, resting on top of it. ]
No, they can't, can they?
[ Monsters, perhaps. Guilty monsters, vengeful monsters, but monsters. They would always become that which they needed to, wouldn't they? ]
They've already tried to take everything else, but this, at least, they cannot.
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[And if anyone got in his way...]
[Well.]
[Silco would feel the same way. What a mirror he has. The man's hand rests on his, and he feels the light weight of it, the warmth, sink in for a moment.]
[A moment, and his other hand moves to shift around the back of the man's neck to pull him in close, a semblance of an embrace. Even monsters deserve something like this, perhaps.]
Nothing can. Over our dead bodies.
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He wondered what had made the man this way, of course. He knew his own story, his own path. That he'd let that weak man he'd once been float to the bottom of the River Pilt, to settle with the rest of the bodies of their fallen comrades. Just another one at the bottom of the river.
But he still felt something β had not embraced his monstrosity just yet, had he? It was there, and it seemed to leak out of the seams of him, when he was focused and clear. Then later, did it crash down? Was this his guiding star, when the weight of it became too much?
It's something like an embrace, between them. Pulled close, it is such a rarity. It isn't comfort, not really. There is still that part in the back of his head, that whispers little promises, threats, reminders. This is the way of danger; but there is no Jinx to protect here, she will be safe in the end. There is no world to end, nobody to betray him for the good of anyone else. No soul to steal and shatter and ruin every little sacrifice he'd already plunged into his own personal furnace to flare the fires of destrudction. They are just monsters, with no aim or purpose but to participate long enough to see their worlds returned, so they can dismantle them.
Monsters were always dangerous, but perhaps... perhaps to one another they are more mirror than monster, in the end. ]
And damn them if they try, hm?
[ It is muffled, the way his head is pressed against him. He wonders if this is supposed to be for him β or for Vergilius? Or does it even matter, in the end? ]
I would enjoy watching you show them precisely the misstep they have made, if they were to try to take it from you.
[ Silco was a violent, cruel man, but he worked through proxies. Purchased and hired help and loyalty. He thinks Vergilius would cut them down with the violent, angry swings of that sword of his. It would be little more than they deserved. ]
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[This embrace solves nothing. It doesn't ease the soul, doesn't quell worries. It won't solve either of their situations. It won't raise the dead. It won't reverse all their bad decisions. In the moment, perhaps its meaningless.]
[But he does it, because perhaps it may do nothing. But perhaps it stands as small reminder, a little flag in the hill of their corpses.]
[It says "I'm here. You're here. We both exist. Out there, there's someone like you. Perhaps you should hold onto that."]
[Silco speaks into his chest with that little remark - and Vergilius can't help but let out an amused little noise, his fingers curling a little around the back of his head.]
You would enjoy that? My, my. That eager to see how I fight, are you? You almost sound like the many fans all the Colors have at home. Perhaps I should get you some merch for the fun of it.
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How odd. To know that there is someone else out there like him. Monsters circling one another and finding... what? Solace? It isn't comfort.
Understanding, perhaps. They'd promised it, between blood and bites, in that darkened hallway half a world away. Was that not what this was? Understanding? Was it β or could it β be more than that? ]
Fans? No, a grouchy old man like you has fans?
[ His thumbnail scraped against one of the scars on his hand, like he was trying to split him open. Even in this semblance of comfort, there were still the sharp edges, awkward and uncomfortable. ]
I just enjoy watching a professional work, is that so wrong?
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[It does seem funny, being outside of it, but the attention is too much, aggravating, and far more than he deserves for being Best Killer of All Time One of Many Number Ones.]
[That's just how the City is. Murder and death are so part of its tapestry that in order to even cut down on it, one has to take an axe to it to begin with. Ironic, really. Silco would understand. That's the point, isn't it? Understanding. They whispered that, body to body, blood in each other's mouths.]
[The simple gentleness of hand in hand seems so far away now, and yet so, so close.]
I'm practically like a bonafide celebrity to some. I don't want to even get into the forum discussions...
[The nail tickles - he knows its a reminder that this isn't something soft, but he somehow doesn't mind it, either way. Maybe he's too used to things like this. His very being was molded on it. Maybe that's why it couldn't work with Malkuth, even as aware as they were of their City. He wasn't made for something sweet.]
Would you say that to any other professional, I wonder? Or just little old me?
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normal...........................
so Normal
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π
(no subject)